I really suck at keeping secrets, so sitting on this cover for weeks (months?) has been SOOO hard. When I first emailed my cover artist, Kanaxa, I'd intended to simply get on her calendar whenever she had space. She was so excited by the premise - "Oh. My. Goodness. A gothic Lighthouse theme?! Are you serious?!" - that she started work right away. Which was fantastic, but it meant I had to keep the cover under wraps since last December.
So. Hard.
Now to whet your appetite further, here's the blurb...
Twenty years ago,
Martin Gallagher stole the Ferox Cor, and now he’s dead.
Vincent Fairchild,
a witch with little power beyond his charm, is tasked with finding that
dangerous magical object. He’s already been pruned from the family tree because
“nice” people don’t have magic. If he fails to return with the Ferox Cor, he’ll
lose his place with the Witches’ Council, leaving him very much alone.
Vincent travels to
the West Point Lighthouse, where he finds things are different than he expects
them to be. Gallagher didn’t use the Ferox Cor to enrich himself, and
Gallagher’s son is not a child. In fact, Rafe Gallagher might be the most
powerful witch Vincent has ever met. Powerful, adult, and incredibly handsome.
Martin will return
on Hallowe’en, when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest, unless Rafe
and his mother destroy the Ferox Cor. If they fail, a great evil may be
unleashed on the world, but helping them puts Vincent’s future at risk. There's
a way forward, but to find it, he must look to his heart.
CLICK ON THIS DUDE TO PREORDER!
The book is currently only listed on Amazon, but will be wide
and there'll be a print version available!
Now, for those of you who are here for the bellyaching to learn about my editing process, here goes...
Last month I made a post extolling the glories of editing. (Find it here.) And even though work on The Lighthouse Keeper has involved some pretty heavy lifting, I still think editing is cool.
I just wish I could write a full-length novel that didn't require surgery to make it shine.
I'm working with a new editor on this one, and I really like her. She's not the problem, I am. (LOL) The draft I sent her wasn't bad, but a couple of the issues she identified had me restructuring the story to make it work better. Once I start moving scenes around, I have to look at every other scene to weave things in and make sure it all still makes sense.
So that's where I've been, combing through the thing, paragraph by paragraph. Some bits just take a little tweaking, but some need a complete rewrite, and while I know the whole thing'll be stronger when I'm done, right now...
Gah.
All that said, I love Vincent and Rafe and I want to make sure their story lives up to that awesome cover!
To whet your appetite, here's a bit where Vincent learns something
interesting about Rafe...
Rafe Gallagher knelt on the ground in a clearing, surrounded by a circle of fir trees and vine maples. Holes had been dug at regular intervals and he held one hand extended several inches about the dirt. He muttered something, words that were unfamiliar but recognizably powerful. At some unseen cue, he produced a trowel from his cloak. He dug up dirt and pine needles and threw them aside. When he'd made a pit that was deep enough to hide the trowel, he stopped, again holding out a hand.
While I didn’t know what we were waiting for, his tension had me hold my breath.
Whatever he wanted, it was not there. Crawling, he found another spot and began to dig, still muttering. If he noticed me or my light, he gave no sign.
The strangeness of his behavior both intrigued and repelled me. Logic suggested that he too searched for the Ferox Cor, and if he – with all his power – couldn’t find it, I didn’t stand much chance.
Still, when he threw the trowel to the ground, I cleared my throat. He froze. Something in his stillness frightened me more than his wild digging had done.
“Who’s there?” he snarled.
I cleared my throat again. “Vincent. Vincent Fairchild.”
“Did Mother send you?”
“No. I’d hoped to find a way to some sort of civilization.”
“You won’t. Not here.” He spoke calmly, as if his hands and nails weren’t black with dirt. “The bluff is too steep to climb, and unless you know one of the natives who called this place Per-co-dus-chule, you’d never find your way.”
“Per-co-dus-chule?” I mangled the pronunciation, though Rafe didn’t seem to notice.
“This place we guard. Did you think our name was the only one?” He swiped a hand across his face, leaving a streak of dirt and blood.
“I guess I never gave it any thought.”
His laugh was bitter. “I’m not surprised. Did you know the first man to sail a tall ship into the Sound named the bluff behind us Magnolia, because he mistook the madrona trees for the pretty flowers he’d known in his youth?”
A collection of rainwater dripped off my hat as if to punctuate the absurdity of the situation. “I didn’t know that either.”
“Hmph.” He found the trowel and tucked it away. “Find my cane.”
“Pardon?”
“My cane. Where is it?”
Now I was thoroughly confused. “There, leaning against that tree.”
The witchlight wasn’t sufficient for me to read his expression, but since he didn’t seem to be joking, I retrieved his cane and held it toward him. “Here.”
Standing, he reached in my direction, making one unsuccessful swipe before clasping the cane in hand. Without any thanks, he tapped the ground, pausing between taps as if listening for a response. He began to walk in my direction. I was too caught up in his actions to get out of his way. He only stopped when we were chest to chest.
“Move, Fairchild.” His tone brooked no argument, yet I held my ground.
Sometimes I have very little common sense.
He might be strange, and rude, and more than a little frightening - hell, he didn’t even show me respect by meeting my gaze - but Rafe Gallagher intrigued me.
“Move, now,” he repeated. From this close he smelled of smoke and burning herbs, though I saw no evidence of fire.
Gathering my courage, I looked directly into those amber glasses, and though it might have been a trick of the light, it seemed his eyes were wholly black.
I got out of his way, though it may have been closer to a jump than a dignified step. He brushed past without another word. I stood, my witchlight dwindling, until I could no longer hear his footsteps through the brush.
Rafe Gallagher was not a boy and he possessed more power than the Witches Council knew. And unless I was very wrong, something almost demonic had stared at me through his eyes.
