Something wicked this way comes...
Suddenly, being bitten by a werewolf is the least of Joanne Walker's problems.
Her personal life in turmoil, her job as a cop over, she's been called to Ireland by the magic within her. And though Joanne's skills have grown by leaps and bounds, Ireland's magic is old and very powerful....
In fact, this is a case of unfinished business. Because the woman Joanne has come to Ireland to rescue is the woman who sacrificed everything for Joanne--the woman who died a year ago. Now, through a slip in time, she's in thrall to a dark power and Joanne must battle darkness, time and the gods themselves to save her.
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March 01, 2012
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Excerpt from Raven Calls by C.E. Murphy
Sunday, March 19, 9:53 A.M.
The werewolf bite on my forearm itched.
Itching was wrong. It wasn't old enough to itch. It should hurt like the dickens, because I'd obtained it maybe six hours earlier. Instead it itched like it was a two-week-old injury, well on the way to healing.
Only I was quite sure it wasn't healing. For one thing, I kept peeking at it, and it was still a big nasty slashy bite that oozed blood when the bandages were loosened. For another thing, my stock in trade was healing. Fourteen months, two weeks and three days ago--but who was counting--I had been stabbed through the chest. A smart-ass coyote--kinda my spirit guide--had given me a choice between dying or becoming a shaman. Even for someone with no use for the esoteric, like I'd been, it hadn't been much of a choice. So now, nearly fifteen months on, a bite on my forearm was something I really should be able to deal with.
And it wasn't that I hadn't tried healing it, because I had. Magic slid off like oil and water, or possibly more like oil and gashed flesh, if oil slid off gashed flesh, which I assumed it did but didn't want to actually find out. Either way, the magic wasn't working. Normally that would be a bad sign, but my talent had taken both a beating and a boosting in the past twenty-four hours, and wasn't behaving. It reacted explosively when I tried using it, and I didn't want to explode my arm. So I was getting on a plane with absolutely no notice and flying to Ireland, because I'd had a vision of the woman who had turned werewolves from slavering beasties 100% of the time into part-time monsters, and in my vision, she'd been in Ireland. I figured if anybody could keep me human, it had to be the woman who'd bound the wolves to the moon's cycle.
That's what I was telling myself, anyway, because it was slightly better than a full-on panic attack in the middle of the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. A day earlier I hadn't believed werewolves existed. Now I was petrified that come the next full moon--which was tonight, the second of three--I would get all hairy and toothy. It was a dire possibility even without adding international air travel to the mix, which, who was I kidding, was possibly the worst idea I'd ever had. Turning into a werewolf was potentially bad enough. Doing it mid-flight presumably meant a plane full of handy victims, although I might get lucky and have an air marshal on board so it would just be me who got dead.
My life was a mess, if I considered that lucky. But I had this rash idea that because I'd be missing moonrise all the way around the globe, the magic shouldn't trigger. And I could always lock myself in the bathroom if I thought I was about to get bestial. Locking myself in the bathroom wasn't that bad an idea anyway. I was afraid of flying, and bathrooms didn't have windows. That automatically made them less scary than the body of the plane. Either way, it wasn't just the werewolf cure that had me wandering the duty-free shops at SeaTac. The other vision I'd had, the one of a sneering warrior woman, had made my healing magic respond as if a gauntlet had been thrown down. It felt like fishhooks in my belly, hauling me east. I was going to Ireland whether I liked it or not.
My personal opinion leaned heavily toward or not. There were places I'd rather be and things I'd rather be doing. Specifically, those things were Captain Michael Morrison of the Seattle Police Department, who up to about three hours earlier had been my boss. I'd quit, he'd kissed me, and the more I thought about him, the more I wanted to tear out of the airport, jump in a cab, and race back into his arms. The fishhooks...