Nell Ingram is a rookie PsyLed agent, using the powers she can channel from deep within the earth to solve paranormal crimes. Together with her team, she's taken on the darkest magic and the direst foes. But she'll need to tap into every ounce of power she has for her newest case.
Nell is called to the Tennessee mansion of a country music star and finds a disturbing scene—dead bodies rapidly decaying before everyone's eyes. The witch on her team, T. Laine, knows this can only be one thing: death magic, a rare type of craft used to steal life forces. PsyLed needs to find this lethal killer fast. But when a paranormal-hating FBI agent tries to derail the investigation, they find themselves under attack from all sides.
Excerpt
I pulled back into the drive when the ambulances rolled past. Weaving between several dozen official police vehicles and three more ambulances, I parked and idled, sitting in the sun-heated car as I studied the house and grounds. Horses stood at the fence just ahead, watching the excitement, tails twitching, ears at attention. Aside from sitting on a draft horse a few times, I didn’t ride, but I’d been raised on a communal farm, so even I could tell these were expensive, well-cared-for, curious, and intelligent equines. They had bright eyes, perked ears, and the glossy, well-conditioned, self-satisfied look of top-notch athletes who knew they deserved the best. I rolled down my window and smelled the farm air: manure, horse, hay, a scent that meant all the good things from my childhood—before I learned what God’s Cloud of Glory Church really was and had gotten away from the dangers of the polygamist lifestyle.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said to the nearest mare. She was a roan beauty with a six-month-old or so foal beside her. The mama horse flicked her ears at me in interest, probably wanting a peppermint or a carrot, which I didn’t have. Flies and gnats swarmed around her face but didn’t land, suggesting an application of bug spray. I let off the brake, rolled a little farther off the driveway, cracked all the windows against the day’s heat, and touched the button turning off the car. Which still felt all kinds of strange when, for my entire adult life, I had turned a key.
This was my first day back at work after two off, and I wanted one last moment to breathe in the calm before diving into work. Sitting alone in what was surely the quiet before the investigative storm, I studied the remarkable, well-cared-for, well-funded farm, and wondered how money related to the deaths here.
The side door opened and a woman wearing a P3E pulled a stretcher across the narrow porch and lifted one end down the three steps to the ground as if it weighed nothing. On the stretcher was a biohazard cadaver pouch (also called a human remains pouch, or HRP). The other end of the stretcher was lifted down the steps by the woman’s coworker before they wheeled it to a coroner’s transport van. Weirdly, the HRP seemed to hold something boxy, rectangular, not body shaped. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but then, I wasn’t sure about much of anything. The gag order on this case was already in place.
The only particulars I knew about the crime scene had been told to me by JoJo Jones at HQ before I left. “Three dead, bodies going to UTMC for full forensic workup. Don’t touch the bodies. I’ve sent you the timeline. Be careful.”
I pulled back into the drive when the ambulances rolled past. Weaving between several dozen official police vehicles and three more ambulances, I parked and idled, sitting in the sun-heated car as I studied the house and grounds. Horses stood at the fence just ahead, watching the excitement, tails twitching, ears at attention. Aside from sitting on a draft horse a few times, I didn’t ride, but I’d been raised on a communal farm, so even I could tell these were expensive, well-cared-for, curious, and intelligent equines. They had bright eyes, perked ears, and the glossy, well-conditioned, self-satisfied look of top-notch athletes who knew they deserved the best. I rolled down my window and smelled the farm air: manure, horse, hay, a scent that meant all the good things from my childhood—before I learned what God’s Cloud of Glory Church really was and had gotten away from the dangers of the polygamist lifestyle.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said to the nearest mare. She was a roan beauty with a six-month-old or so foal beside her. The mama horse flicked her ears at me in interest, probably wanting a peppermint or a carrot, which I didn’t have. Flies and gnats swarmed around her face but didn’t land, suggesting an application of bug spray. I let off the brake, rolled a little farther off the driveway, cracked all the windows against the day’s heat, and touched the button turning off the car. Which still felt all kinds of strange when, for my entire adult life, I had turned a key.
This was my first day back at work after two off, and I wanted one last moment to breathe in the calm before diving into work. Sitting alone in what was surely the quiet before the investigative storm, I studied the remarkable, well-cared-for, well-funded farm, and wondered how money related to the deaths here.
The side door opened and a woman wearing a P3E pulled a stretcher across the narrow porch and lifted one end down the three steps to the ground as if it weighed nothing. On the stretcher was a biohazard cadaver pouch (also called a human remains pouch, or HRP). The other end of the stretcher was lifted down the steps by the woman’s coworker before they wheeled it to a coroner’s transport van. Weirdly, the HRP seemed to hold something boxy, rectangular, not body shaped. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but then, I wasn’t sure about much of anything. The gag order on this case was already in place.
The only particulars I knew about the crime scene had been told to me by JoJo Jones at HQ before I left. “Three dead, bodies going to UTMC for full forensic workup. Don’t touch the bodies. I’ve sent you the timeline. Be careful.”
About Faith Hunter:
She sold her first book in 1989 and hasn’t stopped writing since.
Faith collects orchids and animal skulls, loves thunderstorms, and writes. She likes to cook soup, bake bread, garden, and kayak Class II & III whitewater rivers. She edits the occasional anthology and drinks a lot of tea. Some days she’s a lady. Some days she ain't.
Find Faith online at -
Website: www.faithhunter.net
Facebook (official): https://www.facebook.com/official.faith.hunter
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/faith.hunter?fref=ts
Twitter: @hunterfaith
Yellowrock Securities website: http://www.yellowrocksecurities.com
Gwen Hunter website: www.gwenhunter.com
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