Title: Halfway Hunted
Series: Halfway Witchy Series, #3
Author: Terry Maggert
Genres: Adult, Paranormal
Publication date: June 2nd 2016
Publication date: June 2nd 2016
BLURB supplied by Xpresso Book Tours
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.
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.
Come hunt with Carlie, and answer the call of the wild.
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TEASERS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Left-handed. Father of an apparent nudist. Husband to a half-Norwegian. Herder of cats and dogs. Lover of pie. I write books. I've had an unhealthy fascination with dragons since the age of-- well, for a while. Native Floridian. Current Tennessean. Location subject to change based on insurrection, upheaval, or availability of coffee. Nine books and counting, with no end in sight. You've been warned.
AUTHOR LINKS
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7226905.Terry_Maggert
EXCERPT
EXCERPT
Chapter One: Silent Night
There were only two reasons for me to be
awake on my couch, staring up into the gloom of the pre-dawn hours. The first
is my house itself, which complained against the deep cold with creaking pops
like the knees of a guy who played sports a long time ago when he was younger
and had more hair.
The second was Wulfric. My lover was out
there in the Adirondack winter somewhere, his vampire skin now as cold as the
deep snows that settled on Halfway with a heavy hand. I missed him every second
of every day with an ache that started in my heart and ended in the emptiness
of my arms. Living without him was like swimming through wool that took my
breath and will at every turn.
Everything was hard. Little things made
me sad.
Smiles died on my face and I knew if I
didn’t find the magic to save him, moving on was going to take the rest of my
life and all of my tears. In the midst of my somber reverie, my giant familiar
Gus put one of his Maine Coon cat paws on my shoulder. His rumbling purr calmed
my mind enough that I sighed and began absently rubbing the magnificent fur of
his Tabby neck.
“Brrrrtt?”
He asked me, his bronze eyes fixed on me like two coals floating in the dark.
“I miss him. Sorry. I know I should
sleep. Or listen for spell requests . . . or do anything except lay here having
a pity party.”
Gus answered with a head butt and an
even deeper bumble of contented reassurance. He stretched along me from hip to
head and I was reminded again that my cat is nearly as tall as I am. Or he
would be, if cats could walk upright, but he doesn’t because that would be
weird. I felt a small grin touch my cheeks and let it bloom, then looked across
the room to the kitchen. There, I saw another friend who was always near.
Even in the heart of a mountain winter,
the moon always finds a way to touch me. Laying on my couch in the middle of a
frigid night, I watch the square of moonlight light dance across my kitchen
floor like the slowest ballet possible. The brilliant smudge of light comforts
me, telling me that no matter how short the days and how deep the snows,
sunshine will use the face of sister moon to reach across the dark and set my
spirits to right.
So I watch, and I wait.
I listen for the telltale creak of my
mail slot, an old brass hinge that swings inward when someone needs me. Or, to
be more accurate, they need my magic. When the moon is high, I spend my nights
listening for the telltale footsteps on my porch. Those are followed by a hesitation
as the person decides if they can go through with their request—they always
do—and then I wait a bit longer. It’s understood that to ask for my family
magic, you must write a note in natural ink, then fold the note within an
envelope that is hand made. Hand crafting invests meaning into something as
simple as a note, and the poignant pleas I get range from simple to impossible.
But I always try.
Tonight, there was no slide of an
envelope on the floor of my foyer. Perhaps it was too cold, although
Adirondackers are tough people. A few feet of snow and subzero temperatures
wouldn’t stop a local person from asking for help if they needed it, which
meant that at least or tonight, my town was free of unusual heartache.
In witch parlance, the night was clean.
Spirits were at rest, and after casting a final wish across the snowdrifts to
Wulfric, so was I. Before dawn’s gray could pierce the low clouds covering the
mountains, my eyes grew heavy, I let the sadness leave me, and then, when there
was nothing else to fight, I slept.
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