Heritage Avenged
Author: Marsha A. Moore
Genre: Fantasy romance
Blurb:
Lyra
McCauley receives an alarming letter from the coroner who evaluated her
deceased aunt, originally thought to have died of cancer. The news
causes Lyra to take leave from her job and travel from sunny Tampa to
the frozen island community in northern Michigan. Questioning whether
Dragonspeir magic was responsible for her aunt’s death, she resolves to
learn the truth and accepts the Imperial Dragon’s appointment into the
Alliance sorcery training.
Additionally, becoming
proficient in magic craft is the only way she can bridge the gap between
her mortal human world and her lover’s. Cullen, a 220-year-old wizard,
is dependent upon his Dragonspeir magic for immortality. He is her only
family now; she cannot lose him.
Evil forces block her
and try to steal her inherited scribal aura. Riding a stealth dragon, a
cloaked rider pursues Lyra. Both the Alliance and Dark Realm alchemists
lay tricks and traps. Her aura equals that of the first and most
powerful Scribe, but will Lyra’s novice training allow her to discover
the truth? Will she be able to be with Cullen, or will the Dark Realm
keep them apart?
Purchase Links:
Amazon Heritage Avenged: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Two ~ available for only $1.29
Amazon Seeking a Scribe: Enchanted Bookstore Legend One ~ available for only 99 cents
From Chapter 1: The Letter
Lyra worried about Cullen on his
flight home. Despite the fact he was over two hundred years old, it was
only his second plane trip. The few wizards of Dragonspeir who visited
the real world seldom traveled far, and then not conventionally. He kept
her safe in his world last summer. She intended to keep him safe in
hers.
“Next!” the heavyset postmistress belted out.
“I’ve got to hang up,” Lyra quickly whispered into her cell phone. “Be
sure you call me when you land in Sault Saint Marie. Love you.”
She
sighed and maneuvered to the clerk at the far end of the counter. If
only they could live together in one world. She needed to learn more
magic first and hoped to make a start in a few weeks, when she took her
winter break from teaching to attend his Solstice Festival.
Unfortunately, her formal lessons would have to wait until next summer.
When Lyra approached the counter, the woman peered over the top of her reading glasses as she shuffled papers. “Yes?”
“I’m here to pick up my mail from a vacation hold.”
“Theme of my day,” the postmistress muttered and then barked, “Name and ID.”
“Adalyra
McCauley. Just since the day before Thanksgiving.” She fumbled in her
purse and pulled the driver’s license from her billfold.
The
women sighed, slid off her stool, and shuffled into a back room. A few
minutes later, she lumbered back, carrying a small stack of letters,
glossy ads, and magazines. She scooted the mail across the counter.
Lyra
stuffed it all into a tote bag, then scurried to her silver Subaru
sport wagon and tossed it into the passenger seat. Driving Cullen to the
Tampa International airport and this stop barely left enough time to
make it to the university in time to teach her ten o’clock class. But
the memory of those lingering goodbye kisses made it worth the
consequences.
She stopped for a red light at a twelve-lane
interchange, tapping the wheel impatiently. The edges of the mail peeked
out of the sack, tempting her. She pulled it into her lap and riffled
through the letters. The usual bills. The signal remained red.
Thumbing
quickly through familiar envelopes, one unusual return address caught
her eye, William T. Betts, M.D., Washaw, Michigan—the island village
location of Aunt Jean’s cottage on Lake Huron. Although addressed to
Lyra, it had been sent to where her aunt lived prior to passing away.
She couldn’t place his name as one of Jean’s doctors. Multiple postmarks
revealed a path of forwarding, the oldest dated last August, a few
weeks after the funeral. She checked the traffic light—still red.
She ripped open the envelope and yanked out the letter.
Dear Ms. McCauley:
I
am writing this correspondence in my capacity of Birch County coroner.
Please accept my condolences for the recent loss of your aunt, Jean
Perkins. Prior to delivery of her remains to the Michigan State
crematorium, her attending physician, Dr. Everett Schultz, requested an
autopsy. Dr. Schultz and I wish to meet with you to discuss my findings
at your earliest convenience.
Respectfully,
William T. Betts, M.D.
A
horn honked from behind and jolted Lyra into a panic. Her limbs froze
and her eyes returned for another glimpse of the letter. She wildly
scanned the page, searching for additional information. Aunt Jean had
died of cancer. What more could they tell her than that?
At the
time of Jean’s death, the abrupt change in her symptoms puzzled Lyra and
made her question the visiting nurse. Hours before, her aunt’s mind had
been lucid. Her eyes were clear and her breathing soft and steady, not a
raspy death rattle. Now those initial concerns seemed grounded.
The driver behind her laid on the horn.
The
noise jarred Lyra to the present. She exhaled an arrested breath. To
brace her shaking arms, her free hand clamped the steering wheel. Unable
to coordinate, her foot slid off the clutch and stalled the car.
A chorus of horns blared.
After
fumbling with the ignition, she restarted and herded her Subaru into
the stream of traffic. She locked her eyes squarely ahead to avoid angry
road-rage stares from passing motorists.
One car pulled alongside and tooted. Her eyes shifted onto the driver who flipped her off before speeding away.
Shaking,
she gave up rushing to be on time. Keeping her car safely on the road
was challenge enough. She hung back to allow other cars to pass.
Plodding
in the slow lane, her thoughts drifted to the letter. What had the
coroner found? In September, the funeral home wrote, indicating they
stored her aunt’s ashes, as Lyra directed, until she returned to collect
them. The director never mentioned any question about the cause of
death.
Lyra shifted before engaging the clutch. Grinding gears
vibrated the car. White-knuckling the wheel, she gratefully turned at
the sign for Southern University. Finally in her assigned parking spot,
she slumped into the seat.
Before getting out, she reread the
letter to search for clues between the phrases. She found none, but the
words “earliest convenience” loomed. The doctor wrote the letter three
months ago. Would that lost time make a difference?
Was it
possible someone harmed Jean? Hundreds in the village visited the
funeral and expressed sorrow. What about that strange man, Revelin? He
came to Jean’s home, supposedly working as an aide from the home care
division of the local clinic. He acted suspicious, trying to read Lyra’s
computer screen, open to her draft of the new version of the Book of
Dragonspeir. Maybe a person from Dragonspeir? A few supporters of the
evil Black Dragon could enter her world. But who? His alchemist,
Tarom, possessed enough power and talent. A chill ran down her spine,
thinking of his glowing red eyes and crimson cloak with moving tentacles
at its hem. She sighed. No obvious evidence linked either man.
Sun
rays reflected light through her windshield from the modern glass and
concrete English building. This alerted her to pull herself together and
go inside. After sucking in a deep breath to steady her nerves, she
opened the car door and stepped out. Her legs shook under her weight.
Her shoulders sagged under the load of the briefcase and bags. With an
awkward gait, she ambled toward her building.
She stopped cold.
Students raced around her to make their classes. What about Eburscon?
Alchemist for the Imperial Dragon’s Alliance. She clenched a fist,
recalling his haughty, antagonistic manner. He openly disapproved of
Lyra’s influence on anyone in Dragonspeir.
Opening a side door
off the parking lot, she checked her watch. Five minutes past the start
of class time. She braced herself, rearranged her bags, and climbed two
flights—a short cut to the classroom which avoided the department
offices.
Three minutes later, she arrived in the room,
out-of-breath and shaking, in no shape to teach. But, the chairman kept
careful tabs on all his non-tenured professors, including Lyra.
Thankfully,
the lesson was an easy one, reviewing short story reading assignments.
The students in her American Lit course, just returned from a long
Thanksgiving weekend, didn’t want to hear a rigorous talk about Emerson
and Thoreau. Most eyed her with groggy stares, heads propped on elbows. A
handful of alert and prepared students vied to contribute, snapping out
responses to Lyra’s discussion questions. Usually she enjoyed pitting
them against each other, but today she merely appreciated their
participation.
Her mind wandered two thousand miles away. She
watched the clock, counting the minutes until she could talk with Cullen
during his layover in Detroit.
About the Author:
Marsha
A. Moore is a writer of fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature
spark life into her writing. Her creativity also spills into watercolor
painting and drawing. After a move from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s
happily transforming into a Floridian, in love with the outdoors.
Crazy
about cycling, she usually passes the 1,000 mile mark yearly. She is
learning kayaking and already addicted. She’s been a yoga enthusiast for
over a decade and that spiritual quest helps her explore the mystical
side of fantasy. She never has enough days spent at the beach, usually
scribbling away at new stories with toes wiggling in the sand.
Every day at the beach is magical!
Connect with Marsha:
Steph, thanks lots for featuring my book today!
ReplyDeleteMy pleasure Marsha! Thanks for stopping by my blog!
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