Excerpt Chapter One
The only thing I was worried about as I headed back to my apartment building was the spot on the back of my hand where hot fat had left a burn the size of a nickel. Small, but mighty, the burn throbbed and ached, reminding me it was there. It was worse when the sun hit it, which it did frequently. It was one of those perfect, mild days in December, when you could actually see the sky over L.A. and it was blue.
Who am I kidding? The burn spot wasn’t the only thing I was worried about. If you were to ask me, I could rattle off a dozen major and minor problems, including the sumo-sized rat I suspect was trying to take up residence under my kitchen sink. But those were all chronic problems.
The burn on my hand was new and painful. I didn’t need new problems and was trying my best to ignore it until I could slather aloe vera gel on it. Marjorie, at the diner, had hacked off a leaf from the plant sitting in the pot outside the kitchen door when Deborah, the assistant manager, hadn’t been looking. Marj had wrapped the leaf in plastic. It was in my bag, along with the serving of pecan pie which Deborah had ordered the waitresses to throw out because it was too old. Three days old…there was nothing wrong with it, and it had more calories in it than the egg and toast I had lined up for dinner.
In this world that wasn’t the one I would voluntarily choose, today was turning out okay. Pecan pie, and Hobgoblin of History in my ears. I had been waiting weeks for book fifteen of M.K. Lint’s fantasy series. The library had doled it out to me yesterday and I was on chapter three. Harry the Hobgoblin was looking for the Fairy Eloise, this book; he’d lost her at the end of the last one, because he hadn’t closed the Doors of Eternal Flame in time and a demon had abducted her.
I like reading. I like it a lot.
My building was a white monstrosity that did nothing to enhance the L.A. skyline. The white had long ago turned to a stained, dull grey. Five years ago, a fire had broken out on the top floor and burned out a few apartments. The black smoke had billowed up out of the windows, staining the walls above them. The stains were still there and every time I saw them, I had to remind myself they were smoke stains, not black mould taking over the building. Black mould seemed more appropriate.
I turned off the audiobook, stashed my phone in my pocket and headed for the front door. I only used the front door when I came home from work. Usually, I used the side door, because it was closer to the bus stop.
There was another homeless person sitting on the front steps, leaning against the wrought iron bannister as if they couldn’t prop themselves up, their jean jacket pulled in tight. It wasn’t that cold, although this late in the afternoon, any warmth in the day was beginning to fade.
I swung around the homeless person’s worn boots, and up the steps, digging out my key.“Mom?” The voice wavered.
I whirled, my heart rate climbing, to face the woman rising from the steps, a denial on my lips.
Blue, short, spiky hair. A nose ring. Black eye makeup that had run…or that she had been wearing for too many days. The black looked like bruises.
“Ghaliya?” I asked, for the high cheekbones, narrow chin and high forehead were hers. So were the blue eyes—even if they were blood shot. The next question was right there, behind my teeth. What the hell are you doing here?
Ghaliya pulled the jacket in around her once more. She’d lost weight since the last time I’d seen her…two years, two months and five days ago. And about thirty minutes.
“The super said you’d be home around now,” Ghaliya said. She bent and picked up a small black backpack that had been sitting under her knees and straightened.
Was it possible she’d got taller? She’d been an inch shorter than me. I didn’t think she was shorter than me anymore, and I am nearly always the tallest woman in the room.
I didn’t ask why she was here. That was obvious. She needed help.
I hefted my keys instead. “You’d better come in.”
What is it about Crossroads Magic
that makes it special?
There are a lot of factors that make Crossroads Magic special.
To begin, the book is Paranormal Women’s Fiction (PWF), which isn’t an official genre anywhere, but instead straddles a number of other genres, including fantasy, mystery and romance.
PWF always features older women heroines, who have experienced a bit of life and have a history that can often trip them up. Usually, though, the heroines are around 40 years old.
I stepped up the stakes in my story. My heroine, Anna, is 52 years old. She has a lot of history behind her, and it has definitely shaped her in a way that makes her visit to a tiny hamplet in upstate New York a challenge, right out of the gate.
The fantasy side of the book is also different. There are fantasy creatures in the series, but not the usual elves. I can’t explain further without laying down spoilers, but in this regard, Crossroads Magic *is* different.
Lastly, there is a slow burn romance that will absolutely smoolder! But Anna is of an age where she doesn’t trust her heart as a guide anymore, so it will take a while for her to realize she is just as entitled to fall in love as any twenty-something who ever appeared inside a book cover.
Enjoy!
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