~~ RELEASE DAY BLITZ with GIVEAWAY! ~ Halfway Hunted (Halfway Witchy #3) by Terry Maggert
Halfway Hunted
(Halfway Witchy Series #3)
by
Terry Maggert
Blurb:
Some Prey Bites Back.
Welcome to Halfway; where the waffles are golden, the
moon is silver, and magic is just around every corner.
A century old curse is broken, releasing Exit Wainwright,
an innocent man trapped alone in time.
Lost and in danger, he enlists Carlie, Gran, and their
magic to find the warlock who sentenced him to a hundred years of darkness. The
hunter becomes the hunted when Carlie's spells awaken a cold-blooded killer
intent on adding another pelt to their gruesome collection:
hers.
But the killer has never been to Halfway before, where
there are three unbreakable rules:
1. Don't complain about the diner's waffles.
2. Don't break the laws of magic.
3. Never threaten a witch on her home turf.
Can Carlie solve an ancient crime, defeat a ruthless
killer and save the love of her life from a vampire's curse without burning the
waffles?
Come hunt with Carlie, and answer the call of the
wild.
Available for purchase at
Excerpt
Chapter Two:
Let Them Eat Cake
There are
really only two kinds of people in the world; people who like waffles, and
people who are wrong.
I stand by
that mantra, and I’d like to go one step further, too. The only thing prettier
than a waffle is three of them in a stack, also known as a Carlie in the language of the Hawthorn Diner. That’s my place, or
rather where I work. You’ve seen a place like the Hawthorn before, with the
comfortably squished pleather booths and the counter where old men gather to
drink coffee and tell lies. In my town, Halfway, we just call it The Diner, and
that’s good enough for us because we are the
only diner. My name is used for the short stack of waffles as a nod to me being
the shortest member of the diner staff. Until we hire someone under five feet,
the waitresses will keep barking out orders for the Carlie unless I forget how to make waffles. So, never.
I was born
in Halfway, and this is where I belong. My folks retired three years ago and
moved to New Mexico, where they produce art and sunburns with equal frequency.
I love them, they love being retired, and we chat online once a week where they
tell me about the exotic nature of the desert around them.
My Gran
lives just up the street; her lineage as a witch is longer than I care to think
about, as is her power. It’s vast, and pure, and tinted with mercy. She is what
I aspire to be, and I’m proud to follow in her footsteps as a protector of the
lands that surround Halfway. Gran and I are more than wardens, and less than
saints. The tourists who pass through Halfway don’t know of our skills at
keeping their lives free of things that are either hungry, or evil, or both.
It’s a complicated world, and the veil between our reality and the Everafter is
too thin by far. That’s why I work to perfect a family magic that has been
honed over centuries. It’s also why my name is known to locals as someone who
can help when there are problems outside the normal scope of our human
experience. Gran used to take care of spell requests, but frankly, her magic is
too strong to be used on minor issues of grief, lost love, or restoring hope.
But back to
the waffles. Since I’m only five feet tall, seeing out of the window into the
diner is a bit of a challenge. That’s why I wear Doc Martens at all times,
unless I’m being chased by a bear in which case I will suddenly perfect the ability to fly or at the very least run
barefoot while screaming. The Docs give me enough height to keep from singeing
my nose on the griddle, and I’ll thank you not to make any short jokes while
you’re visiting my place of work. I have several spells which aren’t permanent,
but might cause you to have a bad day.
You’ve been
warned. Kinda.
I keep my
black hair back in a ponytail, and my gray eyes are always looking at one of
two things: the grill, or the customers. I was plating an excellent omelet when
my friend Brendan Kilmeade came in and took up his usual station at the
counter. It was 10:18 in the morning, a fact I would later recall only because
of what Brendan would say to me while I went out to greet him and pour his
coffee. Glynna, the waitress handling all counter traffic, moved to the side while
I went to speak to our town librarian and all-around good guy. Brendan is fully
aware of the Everafter, my witchcraft, and everything that those facts entail.
So when he looked at me with a half-quizzical smile, I knew something was up.
He’s a
librarian, and being inscrutable is part of his job description, so I just
waved at him and said, “Spill it.”
He took a
leisurely sip of his coffee and made a show of enjoying it. I smiled sweetly,
then pointed my charms at him and raised one brow. The message—talk or I’ll do
something horrible and witchy to you—was received.
“Interesting
gentleman in the library this morning. Thought you might want to know.” His
green eyes twinkled with the joy of holding out on me, then he caved and added,
“He walked in, looked gobsmacked, and walked out. All in about ten seconds.”
“Why is this
news? You still trying out that new body spray?” I sniffed him and shot him a
questioning look. He’d gone through an awkward patch last year that involved
skinny jeans and body spray. The results hadn’t been pretty, and I wasn’t going
to let him forget it. Brendan was more of a smart-but-hot librarian type, not a
hipster.
“No,” He
said, defensively. “I’m free of scent, if you must know.” After his own chilly
look, he continued. “I think he was confused by the technology.”
“Why? Was he
an old man trying to use the internet for the first time? You have to admit,
that kind of thing isn’t unheard of unless you’re referring to the door, in
which case he’s a few thousand years old,” I laughed.
And then I
stopped laughing, because Brendan pointed a finger at me and said, “Now you’re
on the right track.”
I felt a
chill despite the warmth of the diner. Old things tended to be bad things. “How
do you know he was. . . .what did he look like?” I amended my question out of
curiosity about the man’s appearance. Usually that was a good place to start
with all things unknown, including people who don’t understand computers.
“He was
dressed for the turn of the century. The early twentieth century, to be exact,
or somewhere around there if I’m any judge of his clothing.” He thought for a
moment as the noise of the diner crowded in on me. I was getting twitchy at not
knowing what Brendan was about to say. “Baggy pants with a high waist. Suspenders
and a heavy shirt. He wore boots that looked like he was used to hard work. His
sleeves were rolled up and there were some kind of marks on his arms. He knows
his way around tools, I think. He’s taller than me, maybe six foot two or so,
but ropy and muscular. I’d put his age just past thirty.” He looked thoughtful,
then asked me, “Do you believe in time travel?”
I snorted,
causing some of the customers to give me a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who
would ever believe something that crazy?”
Brendan put his
chin in one hand and gave me a patronizing smile. He dropped his voice and
said, “Right. Who would believe in something crazy like time travel? I mean, it’s not like a werewolf or a
vampire or something.”
“Will you
shut up?” I hissed. Even in the clatter of the diner, that was a bit too much
information to let drift into the conversation. “And yes, I get it.” My charms
jingled against my wrist as I poured a small amount of coffee into his mug
while I thought. He was right, I of all people shouldn’t dismiss things out of
hand. My entire life was beyond crazy, and I was just getting warmed up. I’m
not even twenty-two yet, who knows what waits for me on the other side of
adulthood?
“I’m not
saying that’s what he is, Carlie, but he was confused by everything in the
library except one thing. Where it was located.” Brendan’s finger tapped the
counter as he related the detail. “We’ve been here for more than a century. I’m
just saying you might want to talk to the guy.” He raised his hands in
supplication and looked off across the lake toward other park. Halfway is more
or less one enormous park with a town in the middle, but there are two distinct
places where anyone can access the lake. Brendan indicated what we call Golden
Beach, then blew on his coffee to cool it. “He wandered off over there. He’s a
bit stunned, I think. Want me to keep an eye on him until your shift is over?”
I peered
into the brilliant winter sun. “Sitting outside? Go ask him if he wants
breakfast on me, and see if he’ll come to the diner. Do you mind? Is there any
chance the guy isn’t human? I don’t want you exposed to danger because I had to
finish a shift.”
“I don’t get
that vibe. There’s something, I don’t know, steady about the guy. He seems
lost, not dangerous,” Brendan summed up.
“Good.” I
looked back to the grill, where tickets waited for me like flapping laundry.
“I’ve gotta cook. I’ll watch for you, and if he won’t come inside from the
cold, at least keep an eye on him so we can find him later.”
Brendan
winked awkwardly and said, “Gotcha boss.”
And with that, we made the decision to invite an unknown person across
our threshold, if only to leave the Adirondack winter behind.
Halfway Witchy
Series
Halfway Dead
(Halfway Witchy Series #1)
Available for purchase at
Halfway Bitten
(Halfway Witchy Series #2)
Available for purchase at
About The
Author
Born in 1968, I discovered fishing shortly after walking,
a boon, considering I lived in South Florida. After a brief move to Kentucky,
my family trekked back to the Sunshine State. I had the good fortune to attend
high school in idyllic upstate New York, where I learned about a mythical
substance known as "Seasons". After two or three failed attempts at
college, I bought a bar. That was fun because I love beer, but, then, I
eventually met someone smarter than me (a common event), and, in this case, she
married me and convinced me to go back to school--which I did, with enthusiasm.
I earned a Master's Degree in History and rediscovered my love for writing. My
novels explore dark fantasy, immortality, and the nature of love as we know it.
I live near Nashville, Tennessee, with the aforementioned wife, son, and herd,
and, when I'm not writing, I teach history, grow wildly enthusiastic tomato
plants, and restore my 1967 Mustang.
You can find Terry at
Giveaway
Presented By
Comments
Post a Comment