It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World... And I really mean it!

There once was a woman named Mad

Whose home was looking rather sad

It sagged where it shouldn't

Lift spirits? It wouldn't!

It was making her feel really, well, kind of bad...

Color and life it was most certainly lacking

So she set out to do a bit of spackling

"A bit" turned into "A Freaking LOT!"

Months passed by, nerves were shot

She had zero free time for internet yakking...

Spackle and dust became her life

Each new project filled with strife

Old houses, well, they take a lot of care

{Weary remodelers, beware!}

Project stresses can run especially rife!

Plaster walls come crumbling down

and leave owners with big frowns

Hardwood floors look lovely, so true

but bring on refinishing blues

Spackling, sanding, painting, more sanding... Yikes! Zounds!

But words are Madly's great love

Storytelling fits her like a glove

She's ready to put down her tools

To get back to ghosts and ghouls

And other mysteries, as below and above...

HOME FOR A SPELL comes out at New Year

Yes, there are more Bewitching books, never fear!

I have some doozies planned for you

Stay tuned, my lovelies! If you only knew!

Oh, the things that will be coming out, my dears!

Home For A Spell, Hardcover release 1/4/11

ISBN# 0425238679

Available for pre-order now!

Meanwhile...

If you know of anyone looking for a castle...

A charmer in the heart of the great Midwest...

In an Indiana town that is as Mayberry as, well, Mayberry...

A town with tree-lined streets...

And ice cream socials and pancake breakfasts at the local fire station...

And a drive-in restaurant that still puts on sock hops some Saturday nights...

And where Friday night varsity games draw numbers that give most local churches attendance envy...

Let me know...

Because Castle Alt is going up for sale! Woot!

Sneak Preview of A WITCH IN TIME

{{Madly blows the dust off the blogboard ::koff koff:: and sweeps the cobwebs from the corners of her cyberspace...}}

Hello, my lovelies ~~

I know, I know, long time no write, but that's another post in itself, and for the time being I wanted to get this out to you.

Because...

Look what was just delivered to my door:

Isn't she beautimous? My very own, very first, hot-off-the-press . . . HARDCOVER.

It's probably wrong to be so enamored of an inanimate object, but . . . whatever. Because the good things in life need to be fawned over. They need to be reveled in. They need to not ever be taken for granted.

And so, my dear ones, I had to share. And by the way...

I'm baaaaaaaack!

Missed you all, mwuah mwuah!

Love always,

Mad {madly!}


And just to prove I love you, here is a long snippet from A WITCH IN TIME:

{{sniiiiiiip!}}

I’ve often been told happiness is relative and that truth is subjective. Words of wisdom usually wielded with deflating precision by cautioning mothers, well-meaning aunts, busybody neighbors . . . and always, always intended to keep you on the straight and narrow. Because that was important, you know. Can’t let a girl get a big head about things. Too much happiness is bad for the complexion, or was that the equilibrium? No matter. And truth . . . well, no one really wants to hear it, do they? Regardless of how much they ask. So of course it’s good to put out the notion that it depends on something nebulous, something individual, something completely indefinable. That way, when you argue your truth with someone of a different mind, your truth can always trump theirs, simply by playing the “Subjectivity” card.

And that, dear friends, really is the cold, hard truth. Hoosiers like the cold, hard truth . . . but only when it doesn’t apply to themselves.

And then there are stoic platitudes. They’re very popular here. You get out of it what you put into it. There are two sides to every story. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. Patience is a virtue. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Do unto others, before they can do unto you . . .

Whoops, that last one isn’t quite right in spirit, is it?

And yet we see its effect day after day as it is reenacted in the day-to-day.

Dark thoughts for a sunny mid-August afternoon, I admit . . . but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Month after month, every time I thought things were getting better, every time I thought, surely that was it, now the town can get back to healing itself . . . Time after time I had been proven wrong. It was too much.

I shook my head to clear away the mists of worry that hovered there on the fringes as I rang up the purchases for what would likely be Enchantments’ last customer of the day. At least I hoped it was our last. For once, I was Ready. To. Go.

“That will be thirty-nine ninety-six,” I told our customer, a regular, as the numbers totaled on the cash register. It had been a long, hot day, our air-conditioning had been acting up, the HVAC crew was missing in action, and a seemingly endless period of Mercury being retrograde in the cosmos had ensured that Murphy’s Law was alive and kicking. Things at the store had been chaotic at best. Add in the missing shipments, a broken crystal vase thanks to my little furry fiend, I mean, friend and store kitten Minnie, and a laptop whose hard drive suddenly stopped talking to its keyboard, which forced us all to rely on memory to locate items in our extensive inventory, and what you got in total was frazzled nerves.
All mine. Liss was, as per usual, as cool as the proverbial cucumber. My proverbial cucumbers, on the other hand, always turned out pickled.

“How do you do it?” I asked her when the customer had walked out with a gift bag packed chock full of goodies and a smile of satisfaction on her face. The admiration coloring my tone was not for effect. I would be the first to admit that I aspired to achieve my boss’s Zen approach toward life someday. It would be nice not to be affected by all of the small annoyances and frustrations some would consider a normal part of spending time on this earth.

“What’s that, ducks?” Liss asked, peering at me from over her half-moon glasses as she tucked a pencil absentmindedly into the hair above her ear and pushed the return key on the non-functioning laptop.

“Stay calm and cool in the face of adversity?”

Liss laughed, a lovely, merry sound that in all the months I’d known her had never yet failed to make me feel better. “I wasn’t aware that we were facing adversity. I’ll have to keep my eyes open now, won’t I?”

Her unfaltering good mood stopped me in my tracks. Was I making too much of things? “You’re right. I’m being overly dramatic.” And I, for one, despised melodrama.

“It’s just the heat getting to you, love. Now, where are those repairmen? They were supposed to be here hours ago. This old building needs some TLC.”

She was right. August had been sizzling, steamy, and sultry and just plain abysmal as far as the weather went . . . not that that was unusual for this time of year. But sometimes there was a sense that we were all dancing around like grease on a forgotten griddle. You’ve heard of jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Yeah. Despite all of the good things that had been happening in my life of late—the most interesting of which had been the blossoming of a new and potentially promising pairing with the not-nearly-so-dark-as-everyone-thought but nevertheless dangerous-to-my-equilibrium Marcus Quinn—there was still an element of edgy uncertainty swimming around in the mix. Or was that just me, being dramatic again?

Probably.

Liss was right. What was a little hot weather in the overall scheme of things? What were a few minor annoyances? It was the town gone mad that we had to worry about.
And on that cheery note . . .

“Would you like me to wait with you for the repairmen?” I offered, although I freely admit that for once the offer was only half-heartedly made. Tonight was a scheduled off night for me, and I had made plans. Big plans. Hopeful plans.

I caught Minnie gazing at me with her luminous bi-colored eyes. I shot her a meaningful look that said, And said plans will not require input from you, Missypants! None of your funny business. She just blinked at me, the soul of innocence, then bent over to acrobatically lick the back of her leg.

“Oh, my dear. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. Now, now,” she said, brushing away my hands as I made a move to tidy the counter. “None of that.” She examined me more closely. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were procrastinating.”

“I’m not procrastinating! I’m— ” I wasn’t, was I? I double-checked myself. Of course I wasn’t. What was there to procrastinate about? A night of movies, munchies, and Marcus in front of the television at his house, away from the nervous energy cycling through town . . . what was there to be nervous about that?

Except the butterflies in my stomach were calling me out as a liar. Because that after three weeks of exploring every facet of making out with Marcus like a teenager in the heated throes of new love, I knew that we were standing on a precipice that would change things forever, for better or for worse, and while I wanted it as much as I thought he did, there was still that edge of uncertainty about what it would mean to the relationship. What it would mean to us.

Get a grip, Maggie, I told myself. It’s not like you’ve never done this before. Visions of a young Madonna flashdanced through my head, and I don’t mean the beatific one.

But it really had been a while, and all the What Ifs were making me crazy.

Er.

Crazi-er.

Hormones. I blamed hormones. They get all out of whack when not let out of their padded cells every once in a blue moon.

“I’m not procrastinating,” I repeated, ducking away from her all-seeing gaze. “I just . . . I . . . well, tonight’s a big night,” I finished simply, unable to find the words to explain further.

It didn’t matter. Liss seemed to understand. The soft look she gave me was both compassionate and reassuring. “Deep breaths, my dear. Don’t fret. Whatever is troubling you, you’ll make it through with flying colors.”

That was Liss for you. She always understood. She did however seem to be waiting expectantly for me to offer up what it was that I was so nervous about. But somehow I just couldn’t. Despite the fact that I knew without a doubt that Marcus and Liss had never been the item I had originally imagined them to be, it still felt a bit like the new girlfriend comparing notes with the former. Silly, really. But there it was.

To ward off her preternatural ability to read my thoughts and moods, I bent down and picked up Minnie, who had raised herself on her hind legs and had planted her front paws against my kneecaps. (The little minx was growing so fast! Sniffle . . .) She’d also been hitching her rear quarters back and forth like a hula dancer with a bad knee--in preparation for launching herself up my body, no doubt. Poor girl--foiled again! She didn’t seem to mind so much. She’d closed her eyes and started to purr the moment I’d scooped her into my arms. “Well, look at you,” I cooed to her. “Pretty girl.”

Liss went back to fussing with the laptop. “Minnie, dear, do tell your mummy that a few well-placed red and pink candles can do much for generating a lovely romantic glow. Not that I think you’ll need it, mind you,” she said, switching the point of her attack to me. “Marcus seems to know what he’s doing, good lad. But the Love candles are upstairs in the loft in the event you feel the need to prime the magickal pump. So to speak.”

So much for thwarting her psychic prowess. “Stop that,” I said, the heat in my cheeks speaking volumes for the blush I knew must have taken root there.

“Stop what, dear?” Liss asked, guileless as any mother gently guiding her child through a troubling situation.

“Stop being so good at the whole Vulcan mind meld thing. I swear, sometimes you are positively spooky.” And sometimes a girl liked to keep her secrets.

“Thank you, my dear. I do try.”

She didn’t have to try, and I knew it. It was just a part of her, a very positive, very para-spooky part of her. One that I could only hope to aspire to one day. It could come in handy, at that.

More and more I thought of Liss as a second mother . . . only one who didn’t have a vested interest in the eventual advantageous outcome of my life’s trials and travails, and unbiased by anything more than a bighearted wish to help and a goodly dose of love. My own mother could have learned a thing or two from that. I love my mom, mind you, but Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God, that woman really knows how to push my buttons. God love her.

The Goddess, too. And all the angels and saints and protective spirits, to boot. My mother needed all the divine intervention she could get to counteract what was a majorly controlling nature.

“Come on, Minnie,” I said, placing a resounding smooch on the velvety fur between her pointy ears, “let’s leave Liss to fight with the computer gremlins. You and I have places to go. People to see.”

Movies to watch.

Men to . . .

Come to think of it, maybe the candles would be a good idea. They certainly couldn’t hurt.

“The candles are in the top right drawer in the large cabinet up in the Loft,” Liss couldn’t resist calling after me as I covertly made my way toward the stairs. “I dressed them myself in Goddess oil, cloves, dragon’s blood, and cinnamon for that extra boost. Should be just the trick.”

No use pretending I wasn’t interested. I paused in my cross-store trajectory as a thought occurred to me, and turned back to face her. “Liss . . . can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, dear. You can ask anything you like.”

“Well . . .” It took me a moment to find the words. It could be a sensitive subject, after all. “Why is it you haven’t found yourself a willing male and taken your own counsel?”

“You mean, why am I not out, looking for love in all the sacred spaces?” I was relieved that she took the question for what it was—curiosity. Humor crinkled at the corners of her eyes. “What makes you think I’m depriving myself?”

I had seen the woman in action, charming every man of a certain age that she came into contact with . . . but: “That doesn’t mean you have opened yourself up to love.”

She smiled, and I saw a hint of wistfulness behind the pragmatism. “One does not control or influence the heart. Love happens only if or when it is meant to happen. Not before, not after.”

It had been four years since her husband Geoffrey had crossed beyond the veil that parted the earthly plane from the more nebulous realms of spirit. Perhaps it was still too soon, I mused, for her to move on in that way. The romantic in me wanted all of my girlfriends to be completely and utterly happy, and while a man should never be deemed a necessary ingredient for a girl’s happiness, the fact remained that having one around sure could make life a whole lot more interesting. But maybe it would always be too soon for Liss. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
I was getting myself all misty. I cleared my throat. “So. Top right drawer, big cupboard.”

“You’re welcome.”

The Loft was one of the most peace-filled places I had ever been lucky enough to experience. It was Liss who had made it that way, injecting her own personal energy into the space until the entire area sparkled with life. When the weather outside prevented her from using the circle in the forest clearing on her property just outside of Stony Mill, the Loft was where she performed many of her meditations, rituals, and spells. I myself often came up here when I needed a few minutes to clear my head, or when I just wanted to meditate and soak up the powerful atmosphere of the place. Powerful in a good way. In a way that spoke of protection, and lightworking for the good of all, and keeping out the dark. In a way that called up my own power from deep within.

Good magick.

I slid my hand along the gallery rail as I made my way toward the wall of cabinets, mostly big solid antiques. As was my habit, I circled around the center rug that marked the ritual area—to me it was sacred space, just as much as her forest glade, and not something to be crossed lightly and without regard. My deference might also have something to do with the protective Invisible Threshold wards Liss cast over the area, although as one of her inner circle, it’s not as though I wasn’t allowed to spend time there.

I found the candles right where she’d said I would, in a drawer clearly labeled “Candles, Red and Pink—for all romantic magickal purposes.” Bingo. I selected three, a power number. Going for the big bang, without bankrupting the store for my own personal gain. I preferred to cache my romance karma, thankyouverymuch. Better safe than sorry.

“Might I suggest that you take a sampling of rose petals and violets from the bulk stores as well?” Liss called up the stairs, ever helpful. “Although now that I think of it, you might not want to burn it in his presence. Marcus is a smart cookie--it’s not as though he doesn’t know what the herbs are for. A sachet, perhaps, to tuck into your pocket?”

I decided to forgo the herbs. She was right, Marcus wasn’t oblivious. And besides, while I wasn’t against a little bit of pump-priming, I really didn’t think much of it was needed in this case. If the last few weeks were any indication, things were well primed as it was. Granted, it had been a while for me . . . but not that long! I did, however, grab a little package of dried catnip to keep the wee one well plied.

Call it insurance.

Liss was waiting for me when I returned once again to the main floor. “Or maybe some fresh fruit. Strawberries, cherries, apples are all good for love. Add in a bit of chocolate, and a savvy witch is in business.” She arched a meaningful brow.

I shook my head at her persistence and grinned in spite of myself. “Goodnight, Liss.”


A savvy witch also knows when to butt out. Which she did. Gracefully, of course. “Goodnight, ducks. And good everything else, too,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Honestly, maybe she should rethink her stance on finding love again, I thought to myself as I gathered Minnie into her soft-sided carrier and hit the gravel parking spaces behind the store. If her current zeal for the topic was a true measure, it seemed quite possible to this armchair therapist that she was living vicariously through others as a defense against reentering the dating game for her own gain. Always a matchmaker, never a match of her own. P’raps the two of us would have to have a talk one of these days. When the time was right.

In the meantime, I had places to go . . .

And so it was with a wildly beating heart that I loaded Minnie into my aging VW Bug (early on in our partnership my dad had jokingly compared her to Stephen King’s Christine due to her cantankerous and unpredictable nature, and the mostly affectionate epithet had stuck), and headed home to my basement apartment in the aging Victorian on Willow Street for a quick pit-stop to freshen up before my scheduled meet-up with Marcus.

“What do you say, Minnie?” I asked the Furry One, who blinked at me sleepily from her spot in the sun on the passenger seat. “Have a little kibble while I get dressed?”

Lifting Minnie’s carrier, I made my way across the surprisingly-green-for-August-thanks-to-a-bevy-of-rainstorms lawn to the sunken entrance to my basement apartment. Eager to escape the steam, I let myself in, grateful for the immediate blast of cool darkness. My basement apartment wasn’t exactly Home Beautimous material, but at least it was always temperate, despite the weather raging outside. My things I set down on the old dining room chair just inside the door, all except for Minnie’s carrier, which I placed on the floor. Immediately she began pawing at the zippered escape hatch.

“Hold on, silly. So impatient!”

The moment she could wiggle her way out, she did, squeezing through the gap I was making like a squirt of ink from a plastic bottle. Once free, she shook her head hard enough to see stars. She blinked blankly until her vision cleared, then scampered off to the kitchen. I knew what was coming next; I stood to one side to watch the entertainment unfold. First, the industrious pawing at the food dish until it scooted right off the soft braided mat that kept the kitty dining area mess-free. Next came the unrelenting flicking with hooked claws at the bottom of the door to the cupboard where I kept the kitty kibble. Finally, she hopped from the chair to the tabletop to the counter, meowed at me—loudly—and while I waited to allow her to finish what had become a nightly performance, she proceeded to knock any item within reach to the floor. Notepad, pencil, keyring. When her beady little eyes fixed on her next target, I moved in quickly.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Turbo. Not the glass,” I said, putting it in the sink. “I take it you want food?”

She began to purr and sauntered back and forth along the counter. And then, just to seal the deal in the event I was a little too dense to understand her meaning, she waited until I had bent down to open the cupboard before stretching out a paw and deliberately pushing the salt shaker over the edge. It missed me by inches, dousing me with a shower of salt crystals as it fell. “Hey, knock it off!”

She tilted her head quizzically to one side as if to say, But I just did . . .

Touché.

I scooped the crunchy kibble into her bowl and set it down on her mat. Before I could straighten again, Minnie had taken a falling leap from the counter, landing gracefully, and started crunching away happily. I only wish I could eat with that same lackadaisical absence of guilt. Instead I had to worry about the elastic on my underwear creating unsightly ripples.

You know, sometimes I think coming back as a cosseted housecat wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Smiling indulgently down at my girl, I dug the milk out of the fridge and poured a bit into a clean dish. The moment I set it down beside her, Minnie changed tactics and pushed her nose deep into the newest offering, her bubblegum pink tongue lapping away.

I watched her until I realized I was postponing the inevitable . . . what was I waiting for?

Leaving Minnie to nosh at her usual breakneck pace, I bypassed the lights blinking on my answering machine, because I knew it was bound to be nothing more pressing than the daily calls from my mom, just “checking up on me,” and I really wasn’t in the mood to handle her queries and complaints just yet. Instead I slipped directly into my bedroom. I’d worn ankle cropped pants with ballet flats and a close-fitting tee to the store this morning—which was fine—but I thought maybe I’d kick things up a notch. One flirty, drapey, babydoll cami and a pair of strappy Mary Jane peeptoes later, and I felt I’d heightened my sex-appeal enormously. To this I added some earrings that sparkled and flashed when I moved my head, and deepened my makeup just a tad. After shaking out my hair, which had been twisted up in clips all day to keep its unruly waves from frizzing in the August steam, and running my fingers through it, I looked in the mirror to find I actually looked quite . . . good. Maybe even better than I’d intended. Hm. That was a happy surprise.

“What do you think, Min? Do I meet with your approval?”

Minnie had finished with her evening feast and was now perched, round-bellied and satisfied, in the middle of my bed, watching me. She tilted her head sideways and gave me an inquisitive stare.

“Now, don’t go giving me that look. Yes, I’m going out tonight. But you get to go, too—we’re going to Marcus’s house.”

Minnie yawned, but I knew it was all an act. Pretending to be disinterested, when inside that fuzzy little noggin waged schemes and daydreams of mayhem and mischief, and possibly even world domination. She perked up again the instant she saw me pick up her favorite toy, a stick-string-feather combo that would have her dancing around like a Spanish flamenco dancer, but before she could leap I popped it into a canvas tote along with her nibble treats, then cast an eye around me for anything else Minnie could possibly need.

Yet another stalling tactic on my part, and an obvious one at that.

I couldn’t believe how nervous I was about tonight. It wasn’t the possibility of rejection that was making me as distracted as a cat in a room full of parakeets—with Marcus, rejection had never really crossed my mind. It was the possibilities that were making me run both hot and cold today. And what possibilities they were! Because my deepest fear was that I was falling for him, fast and hard, and my track record with love hadn’t been what anyone would call “exemplary.” In fact, I was the poster girl for sad tales with bad endings. I had definitely been left nursing a wounded heart once or twice before. But that shouldn’t be a concern with Marcus. Should it?

Hello?

Bueller?

Good grief, my sister was right. I am neurotic.

I took a deep breath. There was no reason to worry. Not this time. Things were going swimmingly with Marcus. So much so that it was easy to forget the strange events that had brought me to him. The weirdness in town. The murders. The rise in the tide of spiritual energies, light and so-not-light. My unexpected awareness of said energies, an awareness that, once acknowledged, had kept growing and growing and growing, until now it had evolved into something I didn’t understand, with no clear end in sight. But none of that mattered, as long as this one thing in my life was going well.

So . . . what was I so afraid of?

Sheesh!

Minnie’s placid stare seemed to echo what the voice in my head was whispering:

What are you waiting for?

What, indeed?

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I made myself move.

The first step is always the hardest, Margaret. . .

The voice of my conscience all too often took on the vocal stylings and attitudes of my late Grandmother Cora. It wasn’t something that I relished—Grandma C had always been a pragmatically stern woman of country ways and devout sensibilities, and that side of her had never failed to come across loud and clear, even as a whisper in my head. Does everyone out there have a snarky conscience? Or was I the only one?

It was because of that that I now turned a dubious eye inward. Because . . .

Since when had Grandma C ever been on my side?

Suspicious minds, Margaret, the soundless voice tsked.

And just what was that supposed to mean?

Only that they always find what they expect to find. Remember that.

Hmm. There was something to that, actually. Deepest fears always seemed to manifest into the direst of circumstances at the worst of times, somehow, some way. It was the biggest reason Murphy’s Law was viewed as truism with a capital T. It was up to all of us to do our best to banish the Murphmeister from our lives. I understood that. In theory. Practical application proved trickier, but I was trying.

And you see Marcus as good for you, I think? the Grandma C conscience voice prodded.

Yes. Oh, yes.

Well?

For once, Grandma C had it going on. And with her, and Liss, and Minnie on my side, how could I resist?

Crosstown traffic was clearing by the time we ventured past our quiet neighborhood. Not that Stony Mill rush hour could ever compare to or compete with a larger city, but with narrow streets and parking along the curb, safe passage could at times be a complicated process. I cut across via the byzantine residential routes, wending through subdivisions, until I hit the sleepy older neighborhood on the outskirts that Marcus called home. Before I got to know Marcus, I would never have envisioned him living in a one-and-a-half story Craftsman-style bungalow, complete with a deep porch and low-slung roofline. The spiky iron fence at the front might not have matched in theory, but the river stone posts separating the sections made it work. The house was far from modern, but it possessed a quiet dignity that felt comfortable and familiar. I loved everything about it, from the faded linoleum in the kitchen, to the carriage barn in the rear that had been converted into a garage-slash-motorcycle workshop, a.k.a. the ideal Man Cave. Now that was what I had always expected from my Marcus.

My Marcus. I smiled at the very thought.

I parked at the curb. Deep breaths, Maggie my girl, I told myself. A quick check in the mirror I’d long ago velcro’ed onto the visor assured me that neither the heat nor the humidity had demolished my best beauty efforts yet, though getting out of the elements would certainly help. I glanced over at Minnie and smiled.

“Here we go.”

I grabbed my bag, Minnie’s carrier, and the canvas tote of kitty goodies and let myself in through the front gate. It made the usual squawk of the hinges as I closed it and dropped the latch into place. The cobbled walk under my feet felt like the curving yellow brick road of Oz, leading me to . . .

“Hello, sweetness.”

I felt a flush of pleasure sweep through me as I looked up to find Marcus waiting for me in the crook of the old-fashioned wooden screen door and looking nothing like the wily Wizard. I stopped in my tracks at the base of the steps. Even from deep in the belly of the porch, his eyes seemed to glow in welcome. My heart did a little bounce and wobble.

Oh, yeah, I was in big trouble, all right.

I lifted my hand and gave a weak, fluttering wave. “Hi.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Another wobble, and this time my stomach got into the act. Keep your head on, nice and straight,Grandma C’s voice intoned inside my head. “You have?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.” I was having trouble getting the gears in my brain to function. All they did was whirr. Madly.

“You going to stand down there all day?” he asked, a lilt of amusement lifting one corner of his mouth as he leaned a shoulder indolently against the inner doorframe. “Or did you want me to come down there and get you?”

Well, that option did present some distinct possibilities . . .

Flustered, I cleared my throat and made a show of displaying my things as I mounted the steps. “I come with baggage.”

“Do you, now. Hello, Minnie.” He reached down to take them all from me, setting it all inside the door, which he still held propped open with one foot, then turned back to face me. His clear blue eyes searched mine. I couldn’t help wondering how much he saw there. “And you . . .” he said, his voice trailing off as he took my face between his hands and lowered his mouth to mine for one long, heart-stopping minute.

Big trouble.

Oh yeah.

“Hellooo, Miss O’Neill.” The low croon teased my tingling lips most pleasantly.

“Hello, Mr. Quinn,” I breathed back, linking my fingers together behind his neck.

“I’ve been waiting to do that all day.”

“You have? That’s funny. Me, too.”

The slow curve of his lips was all I could see. Truth be told, it was all I wanted to see. Without another thought I slid my arm around his neck and kissed him soundly, pressing myself to his body tight enough that he was forced to reach behind himself to grope for the doorframe with one hand to support us both. His other arm was wrapped up and between my shoulder blades, his long fingers cradling the nape of my neck. I couldn’t have gotten away if I’d wanted to.

I didn’t. Want to, that is.

Nervous . . . had I been nervous? How ridiculous. This was exactly what I had been hoping for. What was to be nervous about this?

I didn’t know how long it was before I drifted away from the enchantment of his mouth and back to the realization that we were standing on his front porch, displaying the full measure of our mutual fascination before God, Goddess, and the entire county. I pulled away slightly, regretfully, my hands lingering on his chest. “We should probably go inside. Someone might see.”
He raised one eyebrow in amusement. “And?”

“My mother has a lot of friends.”

“You ashamed of me, Maggie?”

“Of course not.”

“Or are you just afraid of your mother?”

I frowned at that. I was less than three weeks away from my thirtieth birthday. A woman, full grown and in charge of her own destiny. I did not need my mother’s approval for my life. On the other hand, it certainly did make life easier if the two of us weren’t at loggerheads with each other.

Tricky, tricky.

“I’m not afraid of her,” I told him, and I couldn’t help nibbling on the inside of my lower lip. “I’m . . . wary of her web of spies, that’s all.”

“I see. Well, in that case, maybe you’d better come on inside.” He took my hand and tugged. “I have a special way of dealing with spies and busybodies and other unwanted entities.”

I knew he was just being funny, but I had seen firsthand how he dealt with unwanted entities, and in truth the experience had both frightened me and made me feel very safe in his capable hands, all at the same time. There was something deeply reassuring about his knowledge and mastery of all matters spiritual, a certainty I did not yet possess. Maybe I never would. But one thing I did know: Next to Liss, Marcus made a pretty good counselor of the mysterious. Between the two of them, I was covered.

I followed him inside, privately enjoying the warmth of his hand holding mine.
“What’s all this?” I asked him when my eyes had adjusted to the more shadowy interior. Unusually shadowy. I couldn’t help noticing that all the curtains were drawn, and that set up in front of the big windows were what appeared to be a couple of cameras on tripods, as well as a couple of other odd-looking devices whose purposes I couldn’t guess. Heavy wires, neatly bound with tie-wraps, snaked across the hardwood floor and down the hall toward the bedroom he used as his own private digital compound. While on his stint in the military, Marcus had served in Intelligence. Something told me he hadn’t completely gotten that lifestyle out of his system.

“This? Nothing, really. Call it . . . insurance.”

Marcus wasn’t usually this circumspect. I peered up at him, curiously. “Insurance for what? What’s going on?”

He shrugged away the question. “Nothing I can’t handle. Trust me on this.”

I had no misgivings about his ability to handle, oh, just about anything. Without a doubt he had an innate understanding of how to handle me.

“Cameras. Wires. What’s this?” I asked him, pointing to a round dishlike object.

“Just a little listening device.”

“And this?” I indicated a smaller black box.

He grabbed my hand and drew me away, carefully avoiding the various tripods and tripwires. “A voice amplifier. Nothing to worry about.”

Noooo, nothing to worry about here. Nothing at all . . .

“And why are we doing the whole James Bond thing with the neighbors?” I pressed, knowing the story had to be a good one.

“I would never spy on my neighbors without good reason,” he protested as he plopped down onto the sofa and pulled me into his lap. His arms closed immediately around my waist to hold me in place.

Distractions were not going to work on me this time. No sirree . . .

“And you explain all of the devices and whatnot pointed at them, how?”

He tilted his head back on the sofa, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment. “Hm. Would you believe me if I told you that they’re not directed toward the neighbors specifically?”

I glanced over my shoulder. The cameras certainly seemed to be aimed in all the pertinent directions.

He sighed, his fingers toying with one of my curls. “I take it you’re probably not going to be able to just let this go.”

“Doubtful.”

“I suppose you’re going to need an explanation.”

“Possibly.”

The one word answers seemed to be working in my favor. “Well,” he said, considering his options, “I suppose I was kidding myself to think that you could come over without wondering what was up.”

“Probably.”

“So I guess you’re wanting answers.”

“Mmhmm.” Was that one word, or two? Or none?

“You’re awfully cute when you’re curious,” he said with a wicked grin.

Maybe the one word answers weren’t working so well, after all. “Stop trying to confuse me.”

“Maybe I want to confuse you. Maybe—” he twirled the strand of hair around his index finger then flicked his gaze to mine— “just maybe—” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur intended to warm a girl’s blood in an instant, “that was my plan all along.”

Before he could lean in to kiss me and scatter my senses to the four winds, I placed my fingertips over his lips. “Neighbors?” I prompted.

“Can’t see a thing, I promise.”

“But you can see them.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “It’s not for the neighbors, Maggie. I told you that.”

“Then who is it for?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

All of this talking in circles was making my head hurt. I just looked at him, waiting patiently.

Finally he relented. “Take a peek through the view finders.”

I got to my feet and walked over to one of the cameras, bending close to peer through. To my surprise, the object in view wasn’t the house on the opposite side of the street. “It’s pointed at the street itself,” I realized, frowning.

“Check another.”

I did. Same story, second time around. The camera that seemed to be pointing at the neighbor’s house next door was actually capturing anyone approaching the house from that direction.

“There’s another camera in the dining room,” Marcus told me.

The question was, why? I turned to him in bemusement.

“I think someone has been watching my place. I just wanted to see if I could catch said someone in the act. Get it on film. Try to figure out what’s up.”

My eyebrows lifted and I glanced sharply toward the window. “Someone’s been watching you? Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “A week? Two weeks? I’m not sure. I’ve been a little distracted lately.” He winked at me.

I could relate. Boy, could I ever.

While I was up, I unzipped Minnie’s carrier and set her down on the floor. “There you go, little one.” She stretched and yawned, hooking her claws down to the floor as though searching for carpet to latch onto. I handed her one of her catnip mousies. “Run and play.”

Obediently she picked up the tiny mouse in her mouth and darted for the nearest hidey-hole. She was almost as comfortable at Marcus’s house as she was at the apartment. We’d been over often enough that Marcus had surprised us both by setting up a litter box in the laundry room and a soft kitty bed in the office window that overlooked a group of bird feeders he had installed in the yard, and by installing resident food and water dishes in the kitchen. Already Minnie thought of Marcus’s place as her own.

I turned back to the living room. Still as bemused as ever, I sat down next to Marcus on the sofa. Immediately he drew my legs up over his and placed a steadying hand on my knees to hold me in place.

“Who do you think it is?” I asked him.

“Not a clue,” he said, I didn’t like the way his gaze slid away from mine. Why did I have a feeling that wasn’t entirely the truth?

“Well, have you said anything to anyone?” I persisted, “About all this?”

“Uncle Lou and Aunt Molly know.”

“I don’t mean them. I meant, have you filed a report?”

His eyebrows rose. “With the police? Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

The look he gave me made me realize with a start how pointless the question was, considering Tom’s role with the S.M.P.D.

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” And yet the situation frustrated me. Worst of all, I knew it was entirely my fault. Not intentionally . . . but did that make a difference when someone’s heart was hurting? “There has to be some route available to you. What if this turns out to be serious?”

“Hey . . . Hey.” Turning, he tipped my chin up to look at him, and my heart turned over. “It’s no big deal, Maggie. I’ve got it covered.”

“But—“

He pressed a kiss to my lips to quiet my protests. “No worries, okay?”

It was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who was responsible for his inability to go to the police if he needed to. I was.

“So . . . what’s in the bag?” he asked, purposely deflecting my concern toward another topic altogether. I understood immediately what he was doing, but since there was no easy solution to the stalker problem, I quickly decided we might as well try to forget about it. For now.

“Oh, just a few goodies for tonight.”

My airy reply made his eyebrows lift in interest. A slow smile began at the corners of his mouth. “You know, this sounds promising.”

“Maybe.” I kept things light and teasing, though inside me the element that had perked up was far more fiery in nature.

“Mmm. So are you going to show me what you’ve got? Or are you going to make me wait?” The blue of his eyes blazed a little hotter. “I’m not sure I’m going to be good at that.”

I smirked. I couldn’t help myself.

“Waiting,” he supplied quickly as clarification. “I’m not great at waiting.”

I giggled this time. I couldn’t help that, either.

“I assure you,” he leaned in closer, pinning me with his gaze, “I am very good at the rest of it.”

Copyright 2010 by Madelyn Alt. All rights reserved.


****** A WITCH IN TIME will appear magickally on bookstore**********
****** shelves April 6, 2010, or you can pre-order it today***************

A WITCH IN TIME (#6, The Bewitching Mysteries)

Berkley Prime Crime

ISBN-13# 978-0425232613

Coming April 6, 2010

Feathering My Nest...

Happy New Year to all! With 2009 now firmly underway, I thought I'd take a moment to update everyone on what's been going on around here.

Book 5 in The Bewitching Mysteries now has a title: WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, due to be released 7/3/09. Revisions came in over the holidays, but they are done, done, done, and I'm glad, glad, glad. My editor is a wonder and has the best suggestions, always, for little ways to make things clearer, better, bigger. With those out of the way, I am easing my way into Book 6.

What else have I been doing? Feathering my nest -- in other words, remodeling! One of our bathrooms is in the middle of a much-needed revamp, and while it's admittedly a little distressing to glance in the open doorway to find that you can look straight through the open floor joists clear to the basement, in the end it will all be worth it. The crew is actually working faster than I had expected; they just started on Wednesday, and should be done by Wednesday or Thursday of next week. While they are doing that, the family and I have been adding some much-needed color to our home. We've put the finishing touches on three rooms, have a fourth nearly done, and have a couple more rooms to evaluate. Not that Castle Alt will be a finished project when the rest of the rooms are painted, by any means. There is always something that needs done. Usually many somethings, just waiting their turn to hit the top of the priority list.

Still, it feels good to have the painting out of the way, at least. It's a little early for this to qualify as spring cleaning, but that's being accomplished as well as a byproduct of moving the furniture to the center of the room, sweeping cobwebs, cleaning or completely updating light fixtures, removing drapes, vacuuming corners. By the time spring actually arrives, my home should be in pretty good shape. :-)

Wishing you all only the best and brightest of blessings in the upcoming months,


Mad {madly!}

Sneak Preview of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN

Since I am on deadline and will be noticeably quiet for the next couple of months, I thought I would post an early preview of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN, 4 in The Bewitching Mysteries. NRFtW will be released November 4, 2008 {although you're likely, as always, to find it on bookstore shelves a little earlier than that}, and is available for pre-order now on Amazon.

Also, a side note for my Ohio fans: I will be signing books at the Meet the Spirits paranormal expo near Cleveland, Ohio on June 29, 2008. I'd love to see some of you there. You can read all about the event here: http://www.meetthespirits.com/events.php

Without further ado . . . the snippet. Hope you enjoy!

***********************************************

NO REST FOR THE WICCAN
#4 The Bewitching Mysteries ~ ISBN# 0425224562
To be released: November 4, 2008

My name is Margaret Mary-Catherine O'Neill—Maggie, please, only my mother goes the long way 'round the bend—and I am a lifelong resident of Stony Mill, a mostly uninteresting small town in Indiana.

Mostly.

I used to think that living in a small town meant boredom, monotony, and slim pickin's in the way of potential male companionship. On the other hand, I also used to think a belief in magic, ghosts, and witches was a symptom of an overactive imagination, wishful thinking, and possibly even outright insanity.

Kind of funny, when you think about all that has happened here in the last eight months.
And all in this sleepy little town.

Except you won't find me laughing. Would you, if you discovered within yourself a previously unacknowledged ability to discern, and even feel, the hidden, secret, most private emotions of others? The ones they don't want anyone to know about? It's a little unnerving. Unfortunately there are no twelve step programs for empaths. No magic pill to make it all go away. Just like all the other intuitive souls out there in the world, we empaths are on our own, for better or for worse.

And actually, come to think of it, there was also nothing boring or monotonous about the strange disturbances that had been popping up all over Stony Mill, either. Turbulence of a sort in the fabric of energy and matter that makes up the reality the rest of us see and feel and experience. Ripples that seemed to have opened a door and put out a great, big welcome mat for all sorts of weird phenomena. In the beginning, only sensitives noticed the change in the tides, and only those sensitives with a deeper familiarity with matters esoteric understood the significance of what they were feeling.

That chaos energy was on the move.

Dark energy.

That's where the N.I.G.H.T.S. come into the picture. The Northeast Indiana Ghost Hunting and Tracking Society, that is. Headed up by my witchy boss Felicity Dow (at Enchantments, of course--Indiana's finest mystical antique shop), my band of ghost-hunting buddies have been a big help to me in learning to understand more about myself, and to gain some much needed confidence while together the lot of us plumbed the depths of the mysteries of Stony Mill—mysteries both dark and light combined.

For as any good metaphysician will tell you, one cannot exist without the other. I took comfort in that knowledge. That dark could never overpower light. That light would always exist, no matter what. As long as that was true, there was always hope.

A girl needed to have hope. Especially when all the signs pointed to the weirdness in town getting worse.

Scoff if you will. I know how strange this all must sound. A year ago I would have scoffed, myself, but all that I've experienced has since opened my mind. I'm still not convinced that's necessarily a good thing, but I am learning to deal with it. My way.

As for the charge of slim pickin's, it seems I might have been too hasty. A girl with two very different men vying for her attention can hardly complain. What to do with the two of them, well, that's another problem entirely.

My name is Maggie O'Neill, and this is my story.

In researching my newly recognized "talent," I'd read that many empaths tend to be unusually susceptible to the weather, reacting to it on more than just a physical level. Perhaps there was something to that theory, because there was something about a hot, sultry night that never failed to set my nerves on edge, and this summer had had no shortage of them. Summer . . . that's the thing. Summer, it wasn't. Not yet. Not quite. The formality of the summer solstice was still a little over a week away, but already we'd seen enough searing heat to brown the grass and drive people indoors to the cool relief of overworked air conditioners. Between the hot sun and a shortage of rain, the green lushness typical of mid-June in Indiana had thus far failed to manifest. Fields of soybeans and corn that should be beginning to flourish struggled valiantly to deepen their root systems in the crumbling soil, while above ground their growth had faltered, their yellowing leaves coated with the gray dust that was raised from gravel roads with every vehicle that traveled them. Local farmers eyed the sky beneath glowering brows, searching for a hint, any hint, of the much needed moisture.

How it could be as steamy as it was without rain, I had no idea, but it was enough to try the patience of a saint. And Saint Margaret, I was not. Not even close. I was actually beginning to be glad I lived in the basement apartment in the old Victorian on Willow Street rather than on the upper levels. Home to the occasional shadow creature my dark little apartment might be, but at least the surroundings were always a temperate (if damp) seventy degrees, and without the monstrous electric bills my best friend Stephanie Evans, better known as Steff, endured in her apartment two floors above me.

Still, a girl started to go stir-crazy if she stayed home too often. Which was one reason why I had allowed Tom—Fielding, that is, my on again, off again, not-quite-boyfriend—that steamy, Saturday evening, to sweet-talk me into a moonlit drive down to the sunken gardens in the old limestone quarry. The other reason being that I was still trying to make up to him, at least in my mind, for my unplanned lapse in ethical judgment six weeks ago, when I'd allowed Marcus Quinn to kiss me. Marcus Quinn, the delectable male witch I had once mistakenly written off as being attached to my boss. Marcus Quinn, who'd let me know in no uncertain terms that he was most definitely interested in me. Marcus Quinn, who with his shoulder-length dark hair, blue eyes, and laughing demeanor had teased his way into the illustrious position of Temptation No. 1 in my life.

Marcus, Marcus, Marcus!

Forgive the Jan Brady moment, but I will hereby confess to a general state of man-centered confusion. At least Tom was a known commodity. There were variables when dealing with Marcus. Unknowns. Call me a wuss, but unknowns made me nervous. He made me nervous.
Wow, did he ever.

I'd been avoiding him ever since. Or trying to.

Tom, on the other hand, I'd been doing my best to get to stand still. It had been six months since he'd told me he wanted to date me. I'd been trying ever since to figure out what exactly that meant to him. A lot of things had been implied, but never anything definite. There are just some things that a girl needs to get clear in her mind. Like, were we an item, or weren't we? Enter Steff, my very own bona fide Love Guru. She would just shake her head at me and remind me that love was all about the heart, not the head, whenever I voiced my concerns. But then, Steff had an innate confidence I'd always wished for but had never quite managed to acquire.

Back to my Saturday night interlude . . .

Closed to business long ago, the quarry had found new life in years past as one of the top make out destinations in Stony Mill. Not, perhaps, the usual haunt of a couple of non-teenagers, but desperate times called for desperate measures. We'd been there all of ten minutes, trying to get into the experience, when I remembered why desperation was such a necessary part of the equation for an illicit summertime visit to the local Lover's Lane: overheated lip-locks, a steamed-up windshield, hip bruised by a badly positioned seatbelt, bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and the constant embarrassment threat of seeing someone you know stroll past did not make for full-blown seduction.

What had I been thinking?

To make matters worse, Tom was "on call," which as an officer of the law and Special Task Force Investigator was a nice way of saying he was really on duty, but allowed to do things he wanted to do unless his attendance was required elsewhere. Which also meant that the occasional squelch and squawk of the police radio was our romantic accompaniment. Which also meant that Tom's attention was—how shall I say?—diverted.

When I first realized that he was pausing to lend an ear to the portable police radio he carried as part of the job, I almost thought I must be mistaken. After all, his eyes were still closed; it could just be the heat getting the better of my imagination. With the second lull, though, I frowned and concentrated on putting more effort into keeping his focus on the business at hand . . . so to speak. But by the third breather, when he'd actually lifted his lips from mine and put our proceedings on hold while he trained his ears to the numerical call codes and details that followed, I was starting to feel a bit peevish, pent up, and put out. Between the heat, the steam, and the inevitable hurt feelings, any willingness to participate on my part had evaporated in a way that the sweat dampening my frizzing hair would not.

I extricated myself slowly and began to untwist my clothes. Tom shifted to make way for me, but his body was still on high alert, his eyes focused hard on the red power light on the radio as the call detail concluded with a noisy squelch. I don't think he'd even noticed the loss of our romantic evening mojo.

That hurt my feelings even more.

I tried not to let it. His job meant the world to him, and the last thing I wanted was to be one of those needy, self-absorbed women who have to be the primary focus of their man's life. But, geez. Call me high maintenance, but in her more intimate moments, didn't a girl deserve a little priority?

"Maggie." Tom was already buckling himself in on the driver's side as simultaneously he started the engine. I knew what it meant. Without a word I reached for my buckle. "Maggie, we're going to have to go. Both of the guys on duty are in the middle of things right now, and there's been a report of trespass and possible break-in at the feed mill in town." As he threw the truck into gear, he glanced over at me and added as an afterthought, "Sorry."

I sighed. Sorry he might be, but this seemed to be happening more and more often on what little time we managed to find together. Not that it was always Tom's fault; life at Enchantments, Stony Mill's answer to an upscale gift shoppe and secret witchy emporium, was keeping me busier than I ever would have imagined. Business, as they say, had been booming.

"It's all right," I told him, trying hard for magnanimity. "You've gotta do what you've gotta do."

He reached out and squeezed my hand. "That's my girl."

As we left the old quarry, I wondered how many couples had been startled out of their clinches by the bouncing headlights that identified our hasty departure. Then again, would I have noticed, had I been suitably enthralled? Hmm, probably not.

I turned my attention to Tom, keeping my expression neutral and my tone light. "Are you dropping me off, then?"

He shook his head. "No time, not if we want a chance in hell of catching whoever is there. Might be nothing, but better to be safe than sorry. You'll stay in the truck and lock the doors."
It wasn't what I'd wanted to hear, but it was all part and parcel of seeing a cop. Whether I liked it or not, there would be times he would be called in to duty, and whether I wanted it or not, there would be occasions where I would be with him when the calls came in and circumstances would necessitate my being taken along for the ride. Such was life.

I really didn't like it, though. I'd seen enough danger in the previous eight months to last me a lifetime, and none of it had been by choice.

We were traveling indecently fast up the bumpy county roads, slowing only a little before blowing through stop signs at the crossroads. My heart made a scaredy-cat dip every time. I managed to stifle any squeaks of distress, but I feared my fingers would make permanent dents in the soft parts of the doorframe by the time we drew near to the edge of town, where the pseudo-skyline of the feed mill loomed on the horizon, backlit by security lights in the steamy night air.

The Turners had owned the feed mill, the largest collection of grain elevators in the county, as far back as I could remember. A small village worth of silos of varying diameters and heights, the tallest stretching as high as a ten-story building, this hub for the farming community had changed drastically from when I had visited with my Grandpa Gordon as a child. Back then, it had been little more than some old silos, a dusty roundabout, and outlying holding pens for hogs heading for slaughter. Now the new-and-improved array of silos were interconnected by an extraordinary number of ramps and conveyer systems, the hog barns looked pristine—at least on the outside—and the very air itself whirred and buzzed with the noise from drying fans that looked big enough to drive a truck through. I remembered seeing an article in the Stony Mill Gazette about major renovations at Turner's and how they were costing a pretty penny, but this was the first time I'd been out this way in quite a while. Technology, it would seem, had arrived at last in the farming sector of Stony Mill.

As fast as we'd traveled through the surrounding countryside, now that we were drawing nearer the feed mill, we were creeping by comparison so as not to broadcast our approach. Next to me, Tom had gone instantly, perhaps even reflexively, into police mode, his entire body on high alert. His eyes grew sharp, moving here and there, taking in all the shadowed coveys, the many pockets of quiet where a person could easily be hiding.

"Jesus," he said under his breath. "Where to start? The guy could be anywhere."

I watched as he unlocked the glove compartment and withdrew his ankle holster, his eyes still on the quiet scene in front of us. Without a word, I reached behind the seat and grabbed the heavy utility belt and bulletproof vest he always kept at the ready like the Boy Scout he was, and handed it to him.

"Thanks." He opened his door and stepped out cautiously, drawing the vest over his head and securing the thick leather belt around his waist with a quick and practiced motion. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a big pocket knife, which he tossed onto my lap. "Here. Just in case. Stay put. Lock the doors behind me."

He closed the door firmly but quietly and moved away from the pickup with all the grace and danger of a panther on the prowl. His plain white T-shirt and blue jeans stood out all too easily beneath the bright glow of the security lights. A sitting duck, if anyone was out there with a serious reason for not wanting to be caught. Remembering what he'd told me about taking precautions, I punched the Lock button, feeling far more secure as the solid ka-chunk of the tumblers crunched into place. The weight of the folding knife in my hand reassured me even further—not that I'd need it, but its presence eased my mind anyway. At least, for myself; for
Tom, well, that was another worry altogether.

This was the hardest part of dating a cop. One never knew from day to day whether his health and well-being would continue. I found myself leaning forward on the truck's bench seat, staring out the windshield at the pockets of darkness as Tom darted in and out of them, hugging close to the walls. Why didn't he take a flashlight? I wondered, fretting. Maybe I should turn on the headlights . . .

I forced the thought from my head and made myself relax back against the seat. There was no way Tom would see that as anything other than interference, and I'd promised him months ago to keep my nose out of police business. Not that I had ever intentionally intervened. Like my mom had a fondness for saying, trouble just seemed to have a knack for finding me.

I fidgeted anxiously. Nine forty-two on the clock, glowing bright green on the dashboard.
At nine forty-three another car scuffed to a halt beside the truck, red and blue lights flashing, but no siren. I turned my head, but the officer who had been driving had already leapt from its confines and was standing outside my window, face stern, one cautious hand on the butt of his gun as with the other he motioned for me to open the window. Far be it from me to get in the way of the law. I pressed the Down button, posthaste.

Recognition registered suddenly on his face—Jed Something, I remembered just as suddenly, an older, thicker version of Tom, whose gunbelt served only to emphasize the middle-age drift.

"Oh, it's you," he said. "Thought I recognized the truck. Tom already here?"

I nodded. "Out there somewhere. I've lost track of him."

"Right. You stay here." He cut the flashers.

“Be careful. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but—”

He had already turned away from me. Just then the misty clouds that had been obscuring the moon shifted. I glanced up at the movement. My breath caught in my throat as the glow from the half-moon silhouetted a silo with its system of conveyers and chutes and ladders . . .

“Oh, my God. What is that?”

*********************************************

Copyright 2008, Madelyn Alt. All rights reserved.

Ghost Hunting: Mad's Quickie Guide to Hauntings

It has been my experience that many people who don't make a personal habit of investigating the paranormal on a formal or even an informal basis often tend to lump spirit activity under one all-encompassing heading: Hauntings. Actually, this activity can and should be broken down further into the following subheadings:

Poltergeist – The word poltergeist finds its roots in the German language, and essentially means "noisy ghost." And that's it, in a nutshell. Poltergeist activity can run the gamut from noises like knocks or bangs, scattered objects, broken objects. Furniture might move or shake, items might disappear only to reappear in another location, seemingly without human intervention. People who find such activity within their sphere have been poked, prodded, scratched, pushed, whispered to. Poltergeist energies might be short in duration, but others can endure for years; each case is different. What causes this type of activity is open to interpretation. Oftentimes the activity will be centered around one person in the family, possibly a teenager in the throes of hormonal upheaval, or another family member who is undergoing emotional trauma. At other times, the activity can actually be attributed to several entities who pool their energies together in order to manifest change in the environment . . . which means, this activity can overlap other categories. See below.

Residual Haunting – A residual haunting has oft been likened to a recording of energy from a past event, an impression that replays itself over and over again. This type of haunting is one of the most common – just think of all the reports of "grey ladies" and "crying" or "screaming" spirits from castles across Europe. Buildings and even the land itself can serve as a kind of battery or recording device for such energies over time. Any violent or traumatic act that generates extremely high levels of emotion has the potential to generate future residual hauntings. Another factor might be the sheer number/volume of energies that visit a given place – residual hauntings that do not derive from traumatic events seem to take place most often in places that receive a lot of "focused" human traffic – such as churches, schools, hospitals, hallways, staircases. This type of "haunting" is more akin to a movie scene that has been set to repeat, and often the energies recur at the same time of day or year. It is generally not considered a true haunting, because there is no interactivity of the energy with the human activity surrounding it. There have been theories about the interplay of dimensions and linear time and how we might occasionally perceive them, but that's another topic.

Intelligent or Interactive Haunting – Human – This is what most paranormal investigators will consider a "true" haunting situation – when a location or person or object has an attachment by an entity who has intelligence and free will and can interact with its situation and the humans inhabiting the location. The spirit can manifest in many ways: as an apparition {grey haze, sparkles, shimmering space, actual human representation}, as sounds, by movement, by affecting the electrical and/or mechanical equipment in the vicinity. Most importantly, though, they are aware of you, and can acknowledge your presence by trying to communicate with you. Like the humans within your personal sphere of consciousness, these spirits can be benevolent; they can be playful; some seem to be upset and might even act out, depending on their reasons for them being where they are. Most of the time, you will find that they were once human. Generally speaking, they are not confined to one location in a building/physical location, although you might find they have prefered spots to manifest. They seem best able to manifest between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. {the Witching hours, LOL...}. Few are strong enough to show themselves physically during the day, although they may make themselves known in other ways, especially with those who are sensitive/intuitive. Why are they there? There could be several reasons. Perhaps the home/ land/object once belonged to them, and they feel they belong to it. Pride of place/ownership can be very strong, perhaps especially so for people in years past, when ownership was not possible for so many. Perhaps they lost someone very important to them and remain in "wait" mode for that person to return to them. Perhaps they are confused and don't know they have passed over. Perhaps they fear fully crossing over due to their religious belief systems in life. Perhaps they suffer from extreme guilt and don't feel they deserve to let go of that. Perhaps they have "unfinished business" left over from their life experience. Some spirits may actually be random "fly-bys" who are attracted to the energy and spiritual openness of a resident of the home, possibly a child, without a doubt someone who is sensitive to energies or who has mediumistic abilities {whether they are aware of this ability or not}. The trick is in discovering the why behind the presence.

One thing to consider: we sometimes confuse contact from our own Spirit Guides as evidence of an intelligent haunting. :)

Intelligent or Interactive Haunting – Non-human – The most controversial category, anything that falls within this type of activity is without a doubt the most unnerving, amazing, and in some cases, frightening examples of spirit contact a person can experience. There are many different types of entities that might qualify under this heading: Shadows {both tall and small}, the Fae, Elementals/Earth Spirits. The Angels and demons of Christian theology. Some paranormal investigators don't believe in dark entities such as demons – they maintain that there is nothing inhuman about such entities, there are only flawed former humans intent upon wreaking malice and hatred upon the living, continuing the behavioral patterns of their former life. Others maintain that non-human entities, both dark and light, do exist. People do tend to believe absolutely only in those things they have personal experience with, and perhaps that is as it should be.

I hope this helps you to understand the main types of spirit activity that one can encounter. I think perhaps the most important thing to remember is to treat spirits with the same kind of respect and dignity that you would afford another human being. Just as with people, some are fun, some are harmless but annoying, and some just need to be given wide berth. :)

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

Holiday Message & News

To All of My Dearest, Most Beloved Readers ~~

The holidays are upon us, and as per usual, I am shamefully behind where I would like to be at present. The month of November didn't even register upon my consciousness, since I was on deadline and working hard to complete Book 4 in the Bewitching Mysteries in a way that satisfied me. And now December is a little more than half gone, and all I have to show for it is a whole lot of email correspondence, a teensy bit of gift shopping, a couple of get-togethers, a tremendous amount of cookie baking, and . . .

Oh, yeah. There was the release of HEX MARKS THE SPOT mixed in there. Just in time for the holiday shopping crush. Did you all know that books make wonderful stocking stuffers? Spread the love! Give a book {any book!} as a gift this holiday season.








{{ Just a teensy bit of subliminal messaging . . . pay no attention . . . }}






And now, for a bit of new news . . .

Exciting news, actually. My fabulous agent and wonderful editor just finished hammering out the details for an additional two books in the ongoing Bewitching Mysteries, bringing the total to date up to eight {for now . . . ;> }. Aaaaaaaand, more good news: we'll be bringing them out every nine months, rather than once a year. This should be good news for all of you who have begged me to write just a little bit faster. :)

Stay tuned: the new publishing schedule will be announced shortly.

So, while I'm rolling out cookies and creating masterpieces with frosting, non-pareils, and sprinkles, I'm also working out in my mind what trials and travails Maggie O'Neill will be experiencing next. Despite its quaint appearance and seemingly sleepy facade, life in Stony Mill is never boring. {Maggie and her friends will always see to that.}

Wishing you all the warmest of warm blessings this holiday season . . . May your hearths and homes be warmed by the fires of love that exist within your hearts.

Love to all,


Madelyn Alt

It's Out, It's Out, It's Out, It's Out, It's Out!!!!!

Coming up for air after finishing and sending off the fourth book in the Bewitching series . . . ::pant pant pant:: . . . I just wanted to post very quickly that book 3 -- HEX MARKS THE SPOT -- just came out on December 4th:

ISBN# 0425218708
Hex Marks the Spot
#3 - The Bewitching Mysteries, Berkley Prime Crime
~~ Mysteries . . . with Hex Appeal ~~

The Blurb:

Maggie O'Neill loves her job at Enchantments, Indiana's finest mystical antique shop. But something dark is brewing in Stony Mill--and it's not just the fabulous coffee Maggie serves to browsing customers. . .

Looking for charming stock for the store, Maggie accompanies her boss--and favorite witch--Felicity Dow to the countywide craft bazaar. Felicity falls hard for a beautiful armoire, intricately carved by an Amish craftsman. Maggie can't help noticing that though his clothes may be plain, he himself is more handsome than a man sporting a jawline-only beard has any right to be. And he seems pretty aware that the ladies love his. . . furniture. But when the hunky craftsman turns up dead, with a strange hex symbol etched near his corpse, Maggie wonders if the craft involved just might possibly have been the witchy kind. Because Maggie knows that the dead man could well have been oversexed. . . but was he also overhexed?

The latest review from Fresh Fiction:

"The latest in the Bewitching Mysteries series and a winner from page one. Ms. Alt transports her readers to the lovely town of Stony Mill and entertains with characters both charming and sinister. The mystical elements of the story weave seamlessly throughout as the reader learns, along with Maggie as she becomes more comfortable with and knowledgeable about her gifts and how to work with them for the greater good. This is enchanting entertainment at its finest."

What others have said about Maggie:

"Mystery fans who seek out "feel-good" reads for their literary escapism (books by authors like Janet Evanovich, Charlaine Harris, Kyra Davis, et al.) should definitely check out Alt's Bewitching Mystery saga, which is powered by her Everywoman heroine O'Neill. A small-town girl struggling to find her place in the world, she has an optimistic and idealistic outlook on an oftentimes malevolent and depressing reality -- as well an addiction to old episodes of Magnum P.I. -- that makes her one of the most refreshing and endearing protagonists to grace the amateur sleuth genre in years. Alt certainly picked the right name for this series. It's a bewitching saga by a positively witchy chick. Highly recommended. " ~ Paul Goat Allen, BN Ransom Notes Editor

For those who have not yet been initiated into Maggie's world:

The Bewitching Mysteries feature small town single girl and fledgling empath Maggie O'Neill, her witchy boss, and an unlikely circle of ghosthunting friends, the N.I.G.H.T.S., as they investigate an increasing level of paranormal disturbance--not to mention a series of unrelated murders--in Maggie's hometown of Stony Mill, Indiana.

That's about it. And now, having actually completed this deadline on time, I am going to go eat chocolate and celebrate tonight with The Golden Compass.

Oh! One last thing to celebrate: Hex Marks the Spot was the #3 Mystery Mass Market last week. I definitely think that deserves an additional WOOT. :)

Love and Hexes,

Mad ;>

On Signs, Banishing Rituals, and the Throne of Reckoning...

What led me to write paranormal? Nothing less than a sign. The kind of spiritual sign that is akin to the slap of a frozen salmon upside the head. The kind of sign that says, "Wake up, stupid! You haven't been listening! Go. Do. This. Now."

I need the big signs. I can be a bit dense... though I prefer to blame the constant need for multi-tasking. :)

I had been sticking to writing straight historical romance for so long that I had convinced myself that I couldn't/shouldn't/wouldn't try anything else. In fact, I had accumulated so many rejections that I had slowly, steadily, painfully arrived at the certainty that I would always be two steps behind the market trends in romance; that I was just not a person who could ever consider herself lucky. It just wasn't in the cards for me to be successful in romance.

I'd hit a particularly low point while attending an all-day workshop with a nearby group of writer friends. By that time, I'd already received the "SIGN!!!!!!"--an epic, fun, cool idea for a paranormal themed mystery series set in modern day Indiana--but didn't have the courage to follow the idea to fruition. At this everyday writers workshop, there was an exercise that we were all supposed to take part in, one that smacked of a banishing ritual to me. All writers present were supposed to take a length of toilet paper, and on it we were supposed to write a list of all the things that we saw as obstacles or challenges in the way of our success as writers, any frustrations that were affecting our work, any whining we needed to get off of our chests, and we weren't supposed to be nice, or hold back in any way. If we needed to bitch about anything and everything under the sun, this was our chance.

Well, I try to be a nice person on a day-to-day basis, but that wasn't what this exercise was about, and on that particular day, something inside me just . . . snapped. {I think maybe, just maybe, it was my niceness bone...} I measured out a length of toilet paper, then measured out a little more, broke out my gel pen, and started writing. And writing. And writing. Everyone present was laughing at how long it was getting, and at how fast and furious my pen was moving across the, um, page. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say, anything that had or was going wrong at that point in my adult life was touched upon. It was negative, and it was petty, and it felt SO GOOD to flush that toilet paper down the throne of reckoning.

And it was a turning point for me. Somehow, in some way, that simple act of symbolically flushing away all of the negativity in my life cleared the way and began to open new doors for me, both spiritually and mentally. I wrote the book that I worried I wasn't a good enough writer to do justice. I started plotting out the series in my airy-wispy-atmosphere-filled-seat-of-the-pants way -- enough to get the bones of it, but not enough to remove the element of synchronicity that keeps me going. I found an agent who loved it, who found a publisher who thought it could work. And from those baby steps, we moved forward with The Bewitching Mysteries.

What do I like best about telling Maggie's story? The freedom. The absolute, utter freedom of creating a world filled with characters I love. Characters who speak to me and whisper their stories. Characters who could be walking the streets of the town I live in {but who, of course, aren't}, who are familiar and down-to-earth and filled with the quirks and idiosyncrasies we all seem to have in abundance. I love being able to bring a taste of Indiana, one of those forgotten states that exist almost nebulously somewhere in the middle of this great nation, into the public eye {and yes, we are aware that most people know nothing about us beyond the Indy 500}. I love being able to show a variety of spiritual and religious beliefs, and I love being able to talk about religious intolerance and hopefully demonstrate that it is never a one-sided issue. I love exploring the spirit world, and the ways that it touches our own. And I love writing Maggie. She is a searcher, and through her journey toward self-discovery I have learned so much about so many lovely spiritual paths. And what's more, I get to do it with a wink and a smile.

Love to all on this lovely autumn day,

Mad {madly!}

Soooooo... Quick Question

So, I've been receiving requests from readers to start a yahoogroup where people can congregate and discuss the Bewitching series and all things paranormal, as well as receive tidbits and teasers and input from the author in question... namely, me. This list would be whatever readers made of it, and would be separate from any announcement list for those who just want to receive notification of upcoming releases. I'd be more than happy to generate the yahoogroup, but am drawing a blank on what to call you all {other than "My Beloved and Much Appreciated Readers," heh}.

Any suggestions?

Also, a note for MySpace readers. There actually is an existing MySpace group for fans of the Bewitching series. You can join at http://groups.myspace.com/mad4madelyn


Love to all,

Mad {madly!}

The Creation Process

Over on the Witchy Chicks we were discussing the creation process each of us uses. This was a post in which I was supposed to sound very author-ish, very cool and in control as I intelligently discussed Creation, that strange, otherworldly state that occurs when I sit down at the computer and begin to write. How I create what I do, tools and techniques, how do I keep everything straight in my head.

The truth is . . .

The truth is, tools and techniques and bibles sound just a little too hardcore for little ol' fly-into-the-mist me. They're the kinds of things I should be doing but can't bring myself to put much effort into. I don't know why. I'm funny that way, I guess. Maybe because so much of it hasn't been put into words yet, because it's all still stewing away in that mysterious cauldron of creation, waiting for its turn to boil . . . and trying to find words for it before it's ready would be kind of like tasting a recipe before all the ingredients are in there. It just doesn't do it justice.

I'm a seat of the pants writer. When I sit down to write a new project, I develop a very generalized plan for what's going to happen. I know which main characters are going to be involved. I know who the victim will be, and his or her relationships with the people in their lives. I know how my Maggie will come to be involved. I know a few of the scenes that will need to be there to carry on the series arc due to what happened in the last book. I choose a point in Maggie's life to open things, and I allow her and her friends and relatives to guide me, and--voila--creation happens. Beyond that, though, it's all very nebulous and hazy and requires a great deal of trust from me.

Trust. I'm very big on it.

I have faith that the characters will come through for me. I have faith that the magic will happen. And because I have faith, it always does. I close my eyes, I take that leap of faith. The bridge always appears beneath my feet. Sometimes it appears a step at a time, sometimes I see a dozen feet at a time, but I'm always given a briefest glimpse of the entire blessed thing as reassurance that I'll be able to walk the walk when the time comes.

This process has never failed me, and I don't expect that it ever will.

What I do keep in a file is a list of characters and the books they first appear in, the briefest of descriptions and major character issues; a list of establishments Maggie has frequented, and their general location in town; and a huge number of pictures that "speak" to me with their imagery. I'm big on imagery and atmosphere, because they appeal on a subconscious level and lend a bit of creative magic to the mystical dreamworld going on somewhere in my brain.

Creation really is an interesting process, isn't it? One would think that, since the end result is the same, the process itself must also be the same, but I've found that it's very different from author to author to author. Flying into the mist is not for the faint of heart, and it's not for anyone who must control every aspect of everything at all times, but it works for me, and that's all that matters.

Love to all,

Mad {madly!} ... and now that label probably makes sense, heh ;>

P.S. The Find function {Control-F} is my best friend :) :)