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                      (Cover Art by Miss Mae. )

Blurb:

   Excerpt:                                                                                

            Dorcy rushed through the doorway, grabbing the hand railing to keep from falling down the slippery steps.  Swirling fog cocooned her, the impenetrable moisture abruptly halting her frenzied flight. 

Mr. Davenport!

The scream resonated long and loud inside her mind.  With stunning clarity the image she’d seen rammed into her consciousness—a figure sprawled on the library floor, white shirt soaked with blood, the hilt of a knife stuck in his belly.

Numb with shock, she stood unmoving as the air erupted with noise. Hooves clattering against the cobble-stoned street signaled an approaching rider.  Through a parting in the shifting fog she stared toward the corner gas lamp.  Beneath its arcing light trotted a snorting gelding, a shrunken visage of a man hunched over the animal’s neck.

“A body’s been found in Mitre Square.”  Raising his prune wrinkled face, the old man shrilled out his warning.  “Lock yer doors. Stay inside.” 

He spurred the horse down the street and the pair disappeared into the mist.  His high, thin cry merged with the fading echo of the steed’s departing hoof beats.

Dorcy inhaled a shuddering breath, the sudden odor of human body sweat alerting her to someone’s presence.  A deep, unfamiliar voice said, “Madame, I have some business with you.”  

            Gasping, she whirled to flee.  But a strong hand gripped her arm and flung her against the wall of the house.  Knocked breathless, she opened her mouth to scream.

            “Oh no, my pretty lady.” Vise-like fingers clamped on her throat, preventing sound.  “I think you’ll be telling no one that you saw me.”

            She clawed at the attacker’s hand, her nails slashing his flesh as she fought to loosen his hold.  Through the ringing crescendo of blood in her ears she heard the barking of a dog.  The man jerked back and Dorcy twisted away. He grabbed at her, clenching her shoulder.  She lashed out, her fists beating against the rough texture of his jacket.  Strength born out of terrified desperation she tore herself free, squealing with pain as his fingers raked down her arm.