IndieWritersReview’s Spotlight! Spooktacular Feature: A Demon’s Witch by Tena Stetler. (Bewitching Book Tour)

Happy Halloween! So today I’m very excited to participate as a host for Author  Tena Stetler( A Demon’s Witch ) as part of a Bewitching Book Tour Spooktacular Feature!:)  

Haunting Cripple Creek, Colorado

With its wild and turbulent past, Cripple
Creek, Colorado has a history of unexplained, supernatural occurrences, no
wonder it’s earned the reputation of one of the most haunted towns in America.
Tales of haunted Cripple Creek hotels, casinos, and homes flourish.

The Imperial Hotel at Third Street and Bennett Avenue
known originally as the Collins Hotel, was built after most the town burned to
the ground in 1896. As a young man, George Long emigrated from Europe and
eventually made his way to Denver. He married his first cousin and together
they ran the hotel. The union produced two daughters and a son. The eldest
daughter, Alice, was mentally disturbed and the parents were forced to keep her
locked in their apartment next to the lobby for her safety and the safety of

Soon after George fell to his death while
negotiating the narrow stairs to the basement. Or some say Alice escaped,
waited for him at the top of the stairs, struck him over the head and he
crashed to his death from the stop of the stairs. It’s rumored his ghost haunts
the hotel to this day.

My experience at the Imperial Hotel was at
the performance of Dracula by the Imperial Players in early 1990’s. The
performance was excellent, but the strong feeling of someone watching, icy
patches and pressure on my arm and lower back, when no one was there.

The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.
After meeting the cast in the lobby for an autograph session, my family and I
quickly exited the hotel and raced to the safety of our vehicle, thankful that
we hadn’t booked a room. Looking back on the experience, was it the performance
of Dracula in the supposedly haunted hotel that caused my imagination to run
wild, or was there really something there? I admit to having an overactive
imagination, but not that time. In the years since, I’ve visited Cripple Creek
on numerous occasions, to explore old buildings and mining shacks.

My husband and I drive up Hwy 67 to enjoy the
turning of the Aspens in autumn, used to camp at the Lost Burro Campground but
I haven’t set foot in the Imperial Hotel since that night. 

for a fun Halloween Read?
A Witch’s Journey is
chocked full of meddling ghosts, shapeshifters, sexy witch, a ruggedly-handsome
Navy SEAL. An exciting story of redemption, wildlife rescue and Halloween
festivals. What more could you ask for

A Demon’s Witch
Demon’s Witch Series   
Book One
Tena Stetler
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: The Wild Rose Prss
Date of Publication: 11-25-2015
ISBN: 978-1-5092-0308-6
ISBN: 978-1-5092-0309-3
Number of pages:  314
Word Count: 82,115
Tagline: Undeniable attraction and dark secrets between demon and witch promises to tear apart both their professional and personal worlds.
Book Description:
Keeping a lid on all the paranormal beings inhabiting Washington D.C., is a daunting job. Bruce, a six hundred year old demon and the Territory Overlord of the Western Hemisphere, keeps his finger on the pulse of DC’s power players through the activities at his highly successful Wycked Hair Salon. His movie star good looks and body builder physique keeps his dance card full and the rumor mills running.  Within these walls, his anonymity is safe, mostly.
Bruce’s world spins out of control when Angelique, a pint size, gorgeous witch, with an attitude breezes through the doors of his salon. She is the younger sister of Tristian, Bruce’s long time trusted enforcer, whose professional skills are second to none. Tristian is furious at the relationship between Bruce and Angelique, a dangerous situation, but something darker awaits them all. Yet undeniable attraction between demon and witch promises to tear apart both their professional and personal worlds.
Amazon     Amazon UK        Amazon AU     Amazon CA
Kobo      BN       iTunes       Wild Rose Press

About the Author:




Tena Stetler is a best-selling author of award winning paranormal romance novels. She has an over-active imagination, which led to writing her first vampire romance as a tween to the chagrin of her mother and delight of her friends.




With the Rocky Mountains outside her window, she sits at her computer surrounded by a wide array of paranormal creatures, with a Navy SEAL or two mixed in telling their tales. Her books tell stories of magical kick-ass women and mystical alpha males that dare to love them. Travel, a bit of mystery, and adventure flourish in her books.



a Rafflecopter giveaway

IndieWritersReview’s Spotlight! Warlock Holmes Books 1-3 by G.S. Denning (Paranormal Mystery) Halloween Flash Fiction Feature! (Bewitching Book Tours)

Happy Friday Guys! I’m so excited that IndieWritersReview is participating as a host for Author G.S. Denning (Warlock Holmes series) Halloween Flash Fiction The Girl at the Back of the Train. (Bewitching Book Tours) 🙂

In book 3 of the
Warlock Holmes series, there’s a character—Violet Hunter—who is an obvious link
for tie-in stories by whoever wants to write one. So, when they asked me for a
macabre, Halloween-worthy short story, she was an obvious choice. Thus…
The Girl at the Back of the Train
The train car gives a sudden lurch.  The soldier staggers. The doctor curses. The
cobbler wobbles. The eighteen dead men—still chained to the seats, frozen with
their final screams of horror upon grey, mummified lips—jostle back and forth.
One of them tips over. His head separates from his dehydrated neck and thumps
down into the isle. But the next swaying of the train sends it rolling under a
seat where nobody will trip over it, so that’s nice.
“Well,” says the engineer, placing
both hands to his hips, “this is clearly going to take forever!”
He is not the sort of engineer
who drives a train down a railway. He is the sort who builds that railway. Or,
in this case, the sort who comes all the way down from France to register displeasure
that somebody else is not building it, quite as fast as certain rich gentlemen
would like. To say the Orient Express has suffered significant setbacks to its
development would lie safely within the realm of understatement. Everybody
knows it.
Everybody, except the Eastern Roumelian
attaché. He lets forth an audible scoff. “These men? Ha! Disregard them.
Remember, these are all filthy Bulgarians. Political prisoners. Malingerers and
malcontents who would go to any lengths to see our enterprise fail.”
As he is placating a Frenchman,
he speaks in French. This is good for the girl at the back of the train. A
Londoner, she is comfortable with French. Less so with Turkish or Bulgarian. In
the pockets of her great fur coat, she has books that tell her how to order
lunch in either of those languages, or find out where the nearest bathroom
happens to be, but these are of little use for the order of the day—ferreting
out a supernatural murderer. She’s already decided these men are fools, so she
is not watching them. The setting sun, streaming through the windows on the
right has cast their four shadows on the wall to the left. She is watching
those. She’s rubbing her right leg against the carpeted runner that lines the
wall beside her seat. By God, it’s getting tired. She’s been rubbing it against
any suitable surface she can find, for the last three days. There’s no damned
electricity in this country. She’s making do with static. She sneaks a peek
inside her coat at one of the dials on the waist of her electric blue dress.
Her capacitors are at less than 15%. If it were twice as high, she’d despair it
would never be enough. But what can she do? Three days of building static and
this is all she has to show for it…
Judging by his eyebrows and the
angry bristling he’s getting his moustache to perform, the Frenchman has not
been successfully placated. “Any lengths?”
he says. If his tone gets any more dubious, he’ll likely split his pants. “Yes,
I would say they were fairly committed to their cause, if they were willing to
commit mass suicide in so grotesque a fashion, just to delay construction of a
railroad that would bring prosperity to their country. Is that your opinion,
doctor? That these men did themselves in, to slow us down?”
The doctor gulps and looks over
at the soldier. The soldier gives him a little nod to say that—yes of course—he
will be shot if he undermines the authority of the Eastern Roumelian attaché.
The doctor licks his lips and mutters, “Well… what other explanation is there?
There are no marks upon them. No signs of violence. Perhaps it is the result of
a poison? And… erh… as the noble attaché points out, they were Bulgarian.”
“Of course they were Bulgarian!”
the Frenchman shouts. “Line up any ten men you find on the street and seven of
them will be Bulgarian. Then, after we account for the Greeks, the Armenians,
the Gypsies and the Jews, less than two of them will be Turks. I’d say if all
these dirty Bulgarians ever stood up
at the same time and decided they wanted this fake little country to be a part
of Bulgaria, you Turks would have a hell of a fight on your hands, wouldn’t
The soldier nods that this is
true. But the Eastern Roumelian attaché raises one finger and protests, “Of
course we are not Turks.”
The Frenchman rolls his eyes for
the two hundredth time today and indicates the patch on the soldier’s shoulder,
the proud crest of the Ottoman Empire.
“Well… He’s on loan,” says the attaché.
“But let me assure you: the men with whom you bargain are fully loyal to the
country of their birth.”
“Yes, I am certainly gathering
that impression,” the French Engineer huffs. “You, for example must be nearly
forty and—if I am not mistaken—Eastern Roumalia was created by the stroke of
some crazy Englishman’s pen five years
. At this rate, I do not think it shall endure another five.”
At the back of the train, the
loan woman winces. Yes. Her countrymen do seem to have a certain way with maps,
don’t they? Divide this, separate that, bargain, bargain, and in the end, how
does it turn out?
Generally, not so very well.
The Eastern Roumelian attaché
gives his iciest smile and plays his trump card. “Perhaps then, you should go
back to Paris and convince the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits to
change their slogan to: Luxury train accommodations from Paris to nearly Constantinople.”
“We get them to Constantinople
now!” cries the Frenchman in that tone of wounded French pride his countrymen
practice so well and so much.
“And you do your best not to
advertise the fact that the last hundred miles are not in luxury sleeper cars,
but on leaky ferry boats from Varna,” the attaché reminds him. “Let us all
strive to remember: you need our help.”
“Who’s help?” The Frenchman
thunders. “These men are all dead! There’s five more cars, just like this! This
morning, we left Bucharest with over one hundred fit workers. Now, what have we
got? One cobbler and your assurance that nothing at all is wrong!”
“Yes,” says the soldier,
narrowing his eyes at the skinny young man who stands beside him, “one cobbler…”
“I hope you are not implying,
sir, that I had anything to do with
this!” says the cobbler. “I am only here as a gesture of good will, to make
shoes for the workmen. Let me tell you, now that I see what I’ve gotten into, I
have no desire to go. Let whatever workmen still survive at the camp have these
fellows’ shoes and you can take me back home!”
The Frenchman harrumphs. “Unless
we accept the honored attaché’s assertion that one hundred men, chained in
separate train cars, orchestrated their own simultaneous slaughter, perhaps it
is not unwise we ask of the single survivor to tell us what he saw, eh?”
“I told you: I saw nothing!” the
cobbler insists. “All the lights went out and the screaming started. I was the
only man who was not chained, so I hid under my seat. When the lights came
back…” The cobbler gestures around him, at the desiccated corpses.
“I find it most suspicious,” says
the soldier.
At the back of the car, the lone
woman rolls her eyes. That’s what he
finds suspicious? She watches the shadows and rubs the wall.
“Look, we were all on the train,”
the cobbler protests. “Any of us might have done it.”
“But so far as we know,” says the
Frenchman, “you were the only one back here. The rest of us were in the front
with the engineer and crew.”
“What about her?” the cobbler
demands, pointing at the lone woman. “She might have done it!”
“She did not do it. She is here
to help,” says the Frenchman, in a tone that leaves no doubt as to exactly how
helpful he has found her. “My employer has sought aid from many diverse
avenues. It seems they asked the noted English Wizard, Mr. Warlock Holmes, to
come down and do magical battle with whatever has been killing off all your
workmen. The honored gentleman, it seems, could not be bothered. Instead he
sent Miss Hunter, there. One tiny woman, unescorted, and he seemed confident
she would solve all our problems.”
Violet bristles at this. It’s the
third time he’s pointed out she has no companion. As if the most alarming thing
about the current situation is that one lone woman should entrust herself to
the company of so many swarthy foreign men. Her eyes flick to the engineer. “I
am not unescorted.”
“So you keep saying.”
Wit and Fortune are
always with me, sir, and you may have occasion to be glad of it, before long.”
For just a second, it looks as if
she is going to have a particularly saucy answer to that.
But then the lights go out. Even
the sunlight vanishes.
The screaming starts. It does not
last long. Three astonished exclamations of alarm. One strangled scream. The
sudden stink of vinegar. The shattering of glass and the unexpected blast of
fresh, cold air.
The lights come back on.
Now there are but three shadows
on the wall.
“What has happened?” cries the
doctor. “Where did the soldier go?”
Before anyone can reply, he finds
the answer himself by tripping backwards over the dried corpse that lays across
the aisle.
“Mon dieu!” says the engineer.
“What is going on?” says the attaché.
For the first time he looks worried. He has the power to deny that anything is
happening. But if he is wrong—as everybody knows he is—has he any power to stop
what is happening?
“By God, he was right beside me!”
wails the cobbler.
“His rifle! What happened to his
rifle?” the doctor says.
Violet Hunter gives a grim nod.
It’s the only piece of good news she’s had in the last two days. She looks at
the broken window, just behind the Engineer. Well, well… Where could the rifle
have gone? The situation seems to be moving towards a confrontation long before
she is ready, but at least she has this: the creature is afraid of guns.
She looks down at her gauge.
Still not quite 15%. Ah well. It will have to do. The first time she wore the
electric dress, it was meant to be the instrument of her execution. Now, with a
few choice modifications from the genius, Tesla, it shall perhaps be the
instrument of her salvation. Funny, how this big wide world is coming together…
She met him in Paris, where this rail company is headquartered. Yet he is an
Armenian—he hails from very nearly the spot she’s in, now. And it is not an
ideal spot, if she’s honest. Oh well,
she thinks, let’s see if the native son
can save me
. She flips the capacitor switch on her periwinkle blue,
electric blue dress from charge to discharge. She stands.
“I have been listening to your
foolish opinions for three days,” she says, “and they keep getting worse and
worse. I’m sure our friend the attaché will happily attribute all our present
misfortunes to the character of the Bulgarians. The doctor is so clearly under
his influence that he will concoct—in his mind—a poison that can suck the very
life and moisture from its victim in only seconds, though he knows no such
thing exists. All of you seem willing to believe that it is no strange thing
for all the light—even sunlight—to wink out, as if we had just gone into a
tunnel. You know there are no tunnels, here. You refuse to believe I have any
expertise in such matters, for my area is the supernatural and you all believe
such concerns to be pure fiction. Yet you also believe you are the last four
living men in this train car. Is that correct?”
“Well… Yes,” says the attaché.
“I see,” says Violet Hunter.
“Then perhaps you can tell me: if the supernatural possibility is pure
poppycock, if there are four living men standing in the center of this car, why are there only three shadows on the wall?”
“Eh?” the men wonder. Their eyes look
down to their feet, follow their shadows up onto the wall, and they realize
they are indeed one shadow shy.
The doctor has one.
The engineer has one as well.
The attaché, too.
The cobbler gives an angry hiss.
And the lights go out.
Violet knew they would. How could
he ignore a challenge like that? The moment is come. In her mind, she is
certain the cobbler knows how to drink the life-force from a man, in only
seconds. It is possible he may even know something about the construction and
maintenance of shoes. But does he know anything about electricity? Time to find
out. She flicks a switch at her waist and the room fills with a barely-audible tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
And he’s on her. She didn’t know
whether she’d feel arms or teeth, but the thing that touches her is neither.
It’s wet. It stinks of vinegar. It starts to wrap itself around her, like an octopus’s
tentacle. No, two or three tentacles, at least. There’s a pulpy mass of it,
just in front of her and several cold, wet appendages around her. There is no
life in them, no heat or hope. They want hers. They want to drink it out of
But she’s got something else for
them. Violet thrusts both hands forward, onto the strange wet thing. There’s a
flash and a crack.
The tentacles slide away.
The spell is disrupted.
The sunlight comes back.
In the middle of the car stand
the four men.
Three and a half.
The cobbler is headless, his body
sags in the arms of the doctor who—as the light returns—stares down into the
gaping neck of his countryman and stammers, “He… He is hollow.”
And no wonder. Much closer to
Violet, down at her end of the car, floats the cobbler’s disembodied head.
There are several vertebrae visible, dangling from the bottom. Attached to
these by flaps of membranous viscera are most of his internal organs. Violet is
sure she can pick out the stomach, because there it is at the bottom of his
throat. His lungs are easy to spot, as well, for they are the greyish-pink
sacks that inflate and deflate in that familiar way. Oh! And that big reddish
organ on his right must be the liver. Violet knows all about those. Her parents
taught her. Those are the things that fail on you and leave your two children
orphans if all you ever eat is whiskey. Below that hang numerous loops of
intestines which, doubtless, were the probing tentacles she’d felt in the
But then, the dress had been due
for a wash, anyway.
The head of the cobbler is
bobbing about in midair with… quite literally… a shocked expression on its
face. Violet has no idea what sort of thing she’s looking at. But she does know
this: she hasn’t killed it. They’re standing there just feet apart, dumbly
staring at each other, and in probably just a moment, one of them is going to
She makes sure it’s her.
Her hands bolt down into the fur
muff she wears at her waist. It has two purposes. It keeps her hands cozy in
the cold mountainous air. It also houses her two escorts. From either side, she
pulls forth a copper-coated Webley-Pryse revolver, custom made for her by a
fellow she kissed once, and his disreputable room-mate. The barrel of the
pistol in her right hand is emblazoned with the word Wit. On the left, Fortune.
Violet takes a few steps forward,
yanking back the triggers with a businesslike rhythm. Left, right, left, right,
until the hammers click against spent cartridges. Twelve deadly .455 rounds fly
forth, smashing into her enemy.
Not only her enemy.
Three of the mummified corpses
have grand new holes in them.
The French engineer slaps at the
sleeve of his coat, desperately swiping away the dusty coating of
cheek-and-moustache spray that have recently come to rest there. But that’s his
fault. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the other victims if he
didn’t want mummy bits all over him.
The Eastern Roumelian attaché
keeps shifting his gaze back and forth between Violet and the growing red stain
on his trouser leg, displaying an increasing level of horror and recrimination
with each subsequent transit.
“Well…” says Violet, with a
defensive sniff, “I can’t be expected to be perfect at everything, can I?”
Yet the most disturbing outcome
must be this: the creature is not down. She’s sure she hit it. She saw the
liver shake, watched a few loops of intestine forced back by the impact of her
rounds, saw one lung dent inward, like a balloon poked by a toddler’s finger.
She even saw the Cobbler turn his head and grimace in fury as one bullet struck
just below his eye. But to what effect? If anything, her barrage seems only to
have stirred him from his stupor. There is no damage. By the smell of things,
all his internal organs seem to have been pickled in vinegar, until they have
reached some sort of preternatural, rubbery invulnerability.
But then…
Why did he get rid of the
soldier’s rifle?
Why is he scared of guns?
She hit most of his vital organs,
didn’t she?
“The heart!” Violet shouts.
“Where is the heart?”
The question is met with
quizzical looks from the engineer and attaché, and a horrified scream from the
doctor who—gazing down into the depths of the cobbler’s torso, seems to have
identified something which offends his sensibilities.
Yes. There is her target.
Of course, both of Violet’s guns
are empty now. She hits first one thumb release, and then the other, and yanks
the Webleys’ barrels down. Twelve brass cartridges rattle onto the floor.
Which is good. But do you know
what would have been better? Maybe she should have put one of the guns away.
Maybe she should not have reached into the fur coat’s copious pockets for spare
bullets with the guns still in her hands. Maybe she should have concentrated on
loading one pistol and not the other.
As it is, she’s fumbling with not
only two handfuls of bullets, but two handfuls of gun. She’s only slid a few
rounds home, when the creature’s intestines wrap around her arms and neck.
By God…
Their touch…
She reaches up to grab them with
her left hand, letting Fortune dangle by its trigger guard from her index
finger. She uses another of Tesla’s tricks. Human muscles, it seems, are
stimulated by electrical activity from the brain. And, on any given effort,
only a small percentage of the muscle fibers are used. Then again, it doesn’t
take much current to make sure they all fire, when needed. The strength with
which Violet Hunter flings the Cobbler’s head and organs to the far end of the
train car astounds everyone. The engineer cries out when the tangled ball of
organs flies past. The doctor gasps. The attaché faints. Though—in his
defense—he’s lost a fairly consequential amount of blood.
Violet’s arm is screaming.
Tesla’s innovation can greatly increase the strength of her muscles, it is
true. But not the tendons. Not the bone. Sufficient force will, of course,
separate one from the other. He’s given her more than ample power to tear
herself apart, if she’s not carful. And if truth be told, she has not been
careful. How much damage has she done to herself? And—almost as bad—she can
tell she’s got no opportunity to do any more. Her capacitors are empty. She’s
on her own.
No time to worry about it, now.
The cobbler’s head hits the far
wall and immediately springs back towards Violet. They both know they’re in a
race. At the center of the car lies his body—lies his still-beating heart—the
reason this creature is afraid of mortal weapons.
His head regroups itself and
charges her body. Her body charges his, tipping the barrel of each Webley back
into place as she runs. She’s there a moment before him, tackling his mortal
form from the arms of the doctor as she readies her guns. Her friend, Dr.
Watson, cut the barrels down, as well as the handles, to suit Violet’s small
frame. The weapons kept much of their power, but their precision suffered
greatly. No matter. She won’t be missing, now. She presses the barrels of both
pistols against her enemy’s chest.
Oh, but do you know what she
should have done?
She probably should have paid
attention to where she was putting
those bullets. There are just so many chambers, you know. Did she… um… did she
happen to place the rounds at the top of the cylinder? The part that would spin
away from the barrel if the hammer were pulled back?
Horrible loops of intestine wrap
around her neck now. It is not their force that strangles the breath from her,
but their nature. They are cold. They are unlife. The living cannot endure
their touch.
She’s got no eyesight, now—no
sense of the living world. She is falling. Falling through the ashen void.
She’s got no memory of her own self. No love. No sadness. No hope of future
But there is a part of her—somewhere
between her failing mind and her finger muscles—that remembers the task at
hand. Simple, repetitive movements which have become second nature are the last
things to stop. Which is lucky for everybody aboard.
Or… Almost everybody.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The cobbler’s head gives a hiss
of protest. The intestine tentacles relax and begin to fall away. Violet
thrashes herself free, with the little strength that remains to her. She
collapses forward onto the chest of her enemy, panting.
She stays there for some time,
fighting to make her body breathe. After a few moments, she pushes herself to a
sitting position.
“Well,” she says, in a trembling
voice, “that’s done.”
She raises one forearm and daubs
some vinegar, some blood, and a rather unladylike quantity of perspiration from
her brow. She stumbles to her feet. She’s shaking. She might just topple over.
But then, if she can stagger past five more cars of dead men, she’ll have made
it to the dining carriage.
And that will be worth it.
She rather fancies a cup of tea.
As she totters past the
slack-jawed engineer and doctor, she mutters, “Good day, gentlemen. Warlock
Holmes sends his regards.”
Warlock Holmes – A Study in Brimstone
Warlock Holmes
Book One
G.S. Denning 
Publisher: Titan Books
Publication Date: May 17, 2016
Tagline: Sherlock Holmes is a genius … Warlock Holmes is something else …
Book Description:
Sherlock Holmes is an unparalleled genius. Warlock Holmes is an idiot. A font of arcane power, certainly. But he’s brilliantly dim.
Frankly, he couldn’t deduce his way out of a paper bag. The only thing he has really got going for him are the might of a thousand demons and his stalwart companion.
Thankfully, Dr. Watson is always there to aid him through the treacherous shoals of Victorian propriety… and save him from a gruesome death every now and again.
Warlock Holmes – The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles
Warlock Holmes
Book Two
G.S. Denning
Publisher: Titan Books
Publication Date: May 16, 2017
Tagline: Sherlock Holmes is a genius … Warlock Holmes is something else …
Book Description:
The game’s afoot once more as Holmes and Watson face off against Moriarty’s gang, the Pinkertons, flesh-eating horses, a parliament of imps, boredom, Surrey, a disappointing butler demon, a succubus, a wicked lord, an overly-Canadian lord, a tricycle-fight to the death and the dreaded Pumpcrow. Oh, and a hell hound, one assumes.
Warlock Holmes – My Grave Ritual
Warlock Holmes
Book Three
G.S. Denning
Publisher: Titan Books
Publication Date: May 15, 2018
Tagline: Sherlock Holmes is a genius … Warlock Holmes is something else …
Book Description:
As they blunder towards doom, Warlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson find themselves inconvenienced by a variety of eldritch beings. Christmas brings a goose that doesn’t let being cooked slow it down; they meet an electricity demon, discover why being a redhead is even tricker than one might imagine, and Holmes attempts an Irish accent. And, naturally, Moriarty is hanging around… in some form or other.
About the Author:
G.S. Denning furiously studied reading and math until he could play Dungeons and Dragons. His love of DandD expanded to a passion for all things in the sci-fi and fantasy realm, particularly when spliced with comedy – Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, Red Dwarf, Black Adder, Whose Line is it Anyway, Dr. Who, and the holiest of holies: The Princess Bride.
He learned his story-telling skills on the improv stage as a member of Orlando Theatersports, Seattle Theatersports, Jet City Improv, and as a Disney Performer at Epcot. G.S. also worked for Nintendo and Wizards of the Coast.
Finally, after realizing that humanity had not used the pun Warlock Holmes yet, he sat down to begin his first novel series: a dark-comic retelling of Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic Sherlock Holmes stories. G.S. Lives in Las Vegas with The Best Wife and The Best Children.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

IndieWritersReview Spotlight! Fey by Kirsten Weiss (Cozy Witch Mystery)(Flash Fiction Feature/Rafflecopter Giveaway!)

Hello guys! Well in the spirit of the season, today IndieWritersReview is participating as a host for  a little  Halloween Flash Fiction! Check out  Wherein Jayce Battles a Phooka Halloween Flash Fiction from the Witches of Doyle By Kirsten Weiss! 🙂 (Bewitching Book Tours).


Wherein Jayce Battles a Phooka
Halloween Flash Fiction from the Witches
of Doyle

By Kirsten Weiss


“Well, you
didn’t have to answer so honestly,” I grumped. My sister Karin could be bossy.
A farmer
wandered the pumpkin patch beneath a full, harvest moon, his curses floating on
the warm, night air. He prodded a smashed rind with his boot.
Jaw clenched, I
scanned the ruined field and jammed my phone into the apron of my French maid
outfit. Hey, when you’re a real witch, there’s no point to dressing as
something supernatural. Besides, Halloween night was supposed to be time for
sexy fun with my boyfriend, Brayden, not for playing monster-cop.
My chest
tightened. Brayden and I were solid. Totally. But I’d sort of missed our last
two dates due to unforeseen magical circumstances, and Halloween was a special
time for us. I couldn’t let him down again.
I plastered on a
smile and waved to the farmer. “Did any pumpkins survive?”
“Damned kids!”
In other words,
My phone
vibrated again. Ignoring the text, I knelt beside a tiny pumpkin the vandal had
overlooked. I picked it up, brushed off the soil. Since I was an earth witch,
plants liked me. I closed my eyes and focused on the pumpkin. Was there magic
“You! You!
My head jerked
The farmer raced
toward a scarecrow by the side of the dirt road. The scarecrow lifted its arms
and smashed a pumpkin to the ground.
“Damn it.” It
was magic. I leapt to my feet and sprinted toward the scarecrow. Was this a new
trick? The local fairies animating scarecrows?
A shadow swept
through the darkness in a clatter of hooves. Bells tinkling, a wagon flashed
between us.
I skidded to a
halt, teetering inches from the moving hayride, loaded with giggling kids and
beaming parents and jingling harnesses.
The pumpkin
split in my hand, and I jumped. My hair lifted at the nape of my neck. What the
The hayride
A shimmer of
light flitted behind the scarecrow and vanished into the nearby woods.
I cocked my head
and shivered. What was that? Dropping the pumpkin’s remains, I hurried forward.
The scarecrow
slumped and dropped the pumpkin in her hands. And it was a her, a real her in a
scarecrow outfit, and not, as I’d thought, a scarecrow come to life.
“What? Where am
I?” She glared at me. “What did you do?”
Typical. I always got blamed.
The farmer
roared forward, arms swinging. The scarecrow sprinted away, which seemed like
smart thinking.
I checked my
phone and texted my sister.
Crappiest pep talk ever. And where was I supposed to get iron?
The hayride
clattered to a halt. Its driver helped the riders out and handed each a
Iron. I jogged
to the wagon.
“Hey,” I said,
chest heaving.
The driver
smiled at my costume. “Hay is for horses.”
Yay. A comedian.
“Can I have a horseshoe?”
“Did you buy a
“Please, it’s
super important.” That I make my date. Okay, and that I de-possess innocent
Doyle-ites. Oh yeah, and send the stupid fairy back to wherever it came from.
“No ticket, no
ride, no lucky horseshoe.”
“Fine,” I
snapped and rummaged in my frilly apron for some bills. “How much—wait, are
they real horseshoes? Iron horseshoes?”
I handed over
the money and got my shoe. “Perfect.” I raced into the oak forest.
The light dodged
through a vineyard, between rows of twisted vines, and vanished behind a rise.
I jogged over
the hill into another pumpkin patch.
A middle-aged
woman in a plaid shirt, jeans, and vest hurled a pumpkin to the ground.
Aghast, I gaped
at the wreckage. At least a quarter of the field was already destroyed, rinds
and seeds and orange strings tangled on the ground.
“Catch!” I
pitched the horseshoe at the woman.
She plucked it
from the air and tossed it over her shoulder. The woman kicked a pumpkin.
Okay then. No on
the iron. Or that guy had lied about the horseshoe.
My phone chimed,
a gentle cascade of notes, and my insides fluttered. I didn’t need to check the
screen. Brayden was the only person I knew who called instead of texting. He
was old-fashioned that way. It was super cute.
The pumpkin in
the woman’s raised hands exploded, raining down on her head. Her mouth opened,
and the orb flew from her throat.
She stumbled and
rubbed her forehead. “What…? My pumpkins! Who smashed my pumpkins?”
Keeping an eye
on the wavering light, I answered the phone. “Hey there,” I said, trying for a
low purr. But it’s hard to be sexy surrounded by smashed squash.
Brayden’s voice rumbled. “Am I in the wrong spot?”
My belly heated,
turning liquid. “Sorry. My bad. I’m on my way.”
He laughed
softly. “I’ll wait. See you at Antoine’s.” He hung up.
The fairy light
bobbed up a forest trail, along a stream.
I looked down
the hill, where my F-150 was parked, and bit the inside of my cheek. If I
ditched my fairy quest, I could be at Antoine’s in ten minutes.
The light
vanished around a bend.
I swore and
charged up the inky trail. But the blasted light kept ahead of me.
The trail
changed, ribboning past cottages and a miniature red waterwheel.
I jogged up the
stone steps from the creek to Main Street.
Across the road,
a deflating bouncy castle marked the entrance to a pumpkin patch. Old Mrs.
Biddlecreek raised her cane and brought it down on a pumpkin.
Frustrated, I
glanced at my phone. It was nearly midnight. I was sweaty. My maid’s outfit was
a wreck. Antoine’s, a small town bar, would be closing soon. I was so screwed.
How had I gotten
stuck with fairy-removal duty? I didn’t know what I was doing. Iron was a bust.
And I’d no idea why the fairy had left its first two hosts. Not because of me,
that was for sure.
My phone pinged,
and my muscles tensed. I really needed to choose a text tone that was more
relaxing, like my chimes…
The first time
the fairy had left, horses had trotted past, bells jingling. And the second
time, Brayden had called, and my chime tones had rung.
Mrs. Biddlecreek
whacked another pumpkin.
If I was going
to get rid of the fairy for good, I needed bigger bells.
I scanned
through cat videos, political screeds… “Ha!” I turned up the volume and thrust
my phone toward the old lady. Winchester Cathedral’s bells bonged from my
phone’s speaker.
The old woman
clapped her hands to her ears. A ball of light flew from Mrs. Biddlecreek’s
mouth. The light quivered, pulsing, then shrunk to nothing, popping out of our
world’s existence.
The pumpkin
patch exploded, pelting me with an orange mess.
“Augh!” I
ducked, too late.
Mrs. Biddlecreek
blinked and shook a pumpkin rind off her cane.
Brayden, dressed like Zorro, strode down the sidewalk. Even beneath the black
mask, I’d know his broad shoulders and confident stride anywhere.
Frantically, I
brushed slimy orange from my maid’s outfit. “Brayden! You came looking for me?”
“Whoa.” He
plucked a string of seeds from my hair, and his emerald eyes sparkled. “What
“It was sort of…
uh… a magical problem.”
His handsome
face creased. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was worried.”
I motioned
toward the pumpkin patch. “I didn’t want to ruin your Halloween with… this.”
“Ruin?” He
pulled me close, getting pumpkin on his silky white shirt. “All I want is to be
part of your magic.” He kissed me, sending a shockwave through my body.
“Is that all?” I
He peeled
another string of orange goo from my shoulder. “And get you into the shower.”


Read about Jayce and her magical sister in The
Witches of Doyle cozy mystery novels. Book 5, Fey, arrives on October 28th,
just in time for Halloween!


The Witches of Doyle

Book 5

Kirsten Weiss




Genre: cozy witch mystery


Publisher: Misterio Press
Date of Publication: October 28, 2018
ISBN: 978-1-944767-34-1
Number of pages: 192
Word Count: 61,000
Cover Artist: Dar Albert
Tagline: This witch will do anything for a normal life with the man she loves. But when you’re on fairy patrol, normal is relative.
Book Description:
This witch will do anything for a normal life with the man she loves. But when you’re on fairy patrol, normal is relative.
Witch Jayce Bonheim has packed away her candles, crystals and cauldrons. With her boyfriend recovering from a hex, she’s determined to build a sane and magic-free life for them both.
But when a horde of troublemaking gnomes invades the small town of Doyle, it’s up to Jayce and her magical sisters to send them packing.
After the gnomes lead Jayce to a murdered employee from her own café, she’s plunged into an investigation that lands her in the sheriff’s crosshairs. And Jayce must catch a killer before the sheriff’s brewing witch hunt nets a very real witch.
Fey is book 5 in The Witches of Doyle cozy mystery novels. Buy Fey and start reading this quirky witch mystery today!
Spells included at the back of the book.
Amazon      Kobo      iBooks      Nook
About the Author:


Kirsten Weiss has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer re-runs and drinking red wine. The latter gives her heartburn, but she drinks it anyway.
Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes genre-blending cozy mystery, supernatural and steampunk suspense, mixing her experiences and imagination to create vivid worlds of fun and enchantment.
If you like funny cozy mysteries, check out her Pie Town, Paranormal Museum and Wits’ End books. If you’re looking for some magic with your mystery, give the Witches of Doyle, Riga Hayworth and Rocky Bridges books a try. And if you like steampunk, the Sensibility Grey series might be for you.
Kirsten sends out original short stories of mystery and magic to her mailing list. If you’d like to get them delivered straight to your inbox, make sure to sign up for her newsletter at
Feel free to follow her on Twitter @KirstenWeiss or Bookbub, get in touch on Facebook, post a picture of this book to Instagram and tag her @kirstenweissauthor, or send her an email. She’ll answer you personally…which may be a good or a bad thing, depending on your perspective.




Image result for halloween giveaway  

  Click here to enter!   a Rafflecopter giveaway


IndieWritersReview’s Spotlight! Dragon’s Shadow by Allison Morse(RABT Virtual Tour) Excerpt Feature

Hello guys, I’m very excited that IndieWritersReview is participating as one of the hosts for The Dragon’s Shadow RABT Virtual Book Tour!



 photo DragonsShadow_w12685_750-2_zpszmcuoud7.jpg

Tween High Fantasy / YA
Date Published: September 24, 2018
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
Royal twins ripped apart at birth become reluctant champions of good and evil.
Kylie, a teenage science geek, has no faith in people. Instead, she relies on what she trusts the most, the facts––what she can see, touch, and hear but never feel. With enough pain to deal with in her own world, she is thrust into another––a kingdom at war whose strange inhabitants fear one thing the most––the return of the dragon.  All of this is illogical to Kylie, but even more so, when she discovers she belongs there.
Her brother, Prince Jarlon, journeys to kill the dragon who has laid waste to his kingdom.  His only hope for destroying the beast is help from his sister, whom he has never met. Will their paths cross before the beast’s malevolence infects Kylie and turns her into his creature or will Jarlon have to destroy her, too?
Advance Praise
“A heartwarming fantasy adventure featuring winning characters.” – Kirkus Review

Related image

Jarlon’s Kingdom Attacked.

A deafening screech sounded. Jarlon’s limbs vibrated from the piercing cry of a teledicthus. The dragon’s minions.

The twenty-foot-high shelves rumbled, and books rained down. Screams came from outside the library door. “Jarlon you must escape,” the king commanded. “Go into the forest and find the Lady of the Eyes. I need you safe. Go.”

The library doors flew open. A teledicthus, flapping large leather wings and screeching its horrible wail, flew into the room. The monster’s red face featured a mouth that was more like a barracuda than that of a bird. Its lower jaw was longer than the top, and both were lined with a double row of razor-sharp teeth. The creature’s large, black eyes darted about, then settled directly on the prince.

The master of arms pushed Jarlon toward the doorway, but the giant bird swooped closer. The soldier lifted his sword.

Too late.

The teledicthus swiped. Blood sprayed from the soldier’s shoulder, and he fell. The bird screamed in triumph and flew upward, preparing to attack again.

Jarlon leapt to the soldier’s aid. Using a sleeve of his waistcoat, he made a tourniquet by tying it around the man’s arm to stop the bleeding.

The Sword of Legends in his hand, the king yelled to Jarlon to run and hide.

Jarlon looked up and saw the glistening teeth of the giant bird come closer. Blood covered the bottom double row. The beast then closed its mouth, and the blood vanished. The creature dove toward him.

Unsheathing his sword, Jarlon waited for his moment to strike. The wind from the teledicthus’ wings whisked across his cheek and a touch of saliva brushed his arm. He swung his saber at the bird’s neck.

The teledicthus dropped in midair to dodge the blade. Still, the bird did not avoid the sharp blow to the back of his head as Jarlon hit downward.

“Maglot!” he swore. He hit the bird squarely but with the flat side of his sword. The sharp end had failed to pierce the beast’s skin.

The teledicthus flew up and out of reach. A second screeching bird swooped into the room, and the two circled their prey, their sights set on the king.

Jarlon ran toward his uncle. Everything slowed. His heart pounded.

The teledicthus dove closer and closer still.

With arm held upward, Jarlon placed his body and his sword in front of the king, waiting for the beasts’ jaws to tear into his flesh. Instead, his uncle shoved him to the floor, and Jarlon watched the king ram the Sword of Legends into one of the great birds.

The bird fell dead.

Jarlon pushed himself to his feet but not in time.

The other teledicthus sliced into his uncle’s chest, leaving a gash that exploded in red and ran down the king’s robe. His uncle was dead!

A scream, more primal than any teledicthus could make, erupted from Jarlon. “No!”

The giant bird flew back to the roof of the library.

Watching it circle above, Jarlon held his sword tightly and waited to die. Then the stone floor rumbled beneath him. Something grabbed his leg.


Tryff! Where was he?

Jarlon looked down. A stone from the floor had been removed. He scrambled through the opening and dove into the darkness.



About The Author:

Allison Morse is the author of three very different novels: Fallen Star a Hollywood Gothic mystery, The Sweetheart Deal, a Rom/Com and Dragon’s Shadow a YA Fantasy & Adventure all published by The Wild Rose Press. She lives with her wonderful husband in a house in the hills filled with books.


Contact Links
Purchase Links
RABT Book Tours & PR