WIP

Work in Progress

Although I frequently decide to concentrate only on one book at a time, I inevitably find myself with more ideas than I need, so end up with several works in progress. At the moment, I’m mainly working on Blood Red Moon– book 3 in the Black Witch Saga.

Excerpt…

January 1678. London.

They leave the horse and cart at Bishopes Gate, not far from the entrance to the original Bethlem Hospital. The street is gloomy with only the occasional oil lamp or animal-fat candle hung outside a house to light their way, the yellowish glow giving the street an eerie feel that doesn’t help Cutler’s presence of mind. He climbs down and extracts the shovel from underneath the blanket. Looping the tool’s rope over one shoulder, he holds out a hand for the witch. It’s hard to make out her face in the dark but he knows she’s smiling that same creepy smile she’s worn for the last few weeks, the smile that frightens him when he wakes in the night and finds her grinning at him like a madwoman.

Isabella interlaces her fingers into his, the way she always does, and steps lightly from her perch. Her sharp eyes scan their surroundings, then she gives him a nod, as if to say you may continue. Cutler keeps one hand on the shovel to prevent it catching his leg as they walk, and leads the witch through the gate and onto the old track that runs past the ruins of the hospital. The surrounding walls have crumbled over the years, casting rocks and mortar across the muddy track. The largest of the stones have long since disappeared, seized by builders and stonemasons for use on the new houses built since the Great Fire.

Cutler’s boot slides into a puddle, causing him to curse. He stops and gives the boot a shake. “Should’ve brought a lantern,” he says.

“I can see well enough,” says Isabella.

Cutler nods to himself. Aye, that you can, he thinks—see in the dark, see into my fucking brain, no doubt. But he says nothing, and trudges on towards the cottages silhouetted on the horizon.

The graveyard is situated on a narrow strip of land between the old hospital and the dwellings beyond. One or two lights are showing in windows, but with no lantern to guide the intruders it’s unlikely anyone would be able to see them.  And even if they could, what then? No sane man would leave his house in the middle of the night to investigate trespassers in a graveyard. Especially not this one.

They step carefully, making their way between the headstones and the decaying wooden crosses that mark the resting places of those unfortunate souls who died while incarcerated as lunatics.

Cutler comes to a halt near the wall at the far end. He stabs the shovel into the frozen earth.

“Be lucky to dig up anything here,” he mutters. “Hard as bell metal.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” says Isabella.

Cutler gives her a sideways glance, and not for the first time has to pinch himself. The witch Lizzie Pickin is alive and well and living in the body of a beautiful redhead whose only crime was to fall under the spell of the wickedest woman in London.

“What?” That smile again.

“Nothing. Let’s get this done.”