Tour Stop: A New Dawn by Trina Spellman

 

Interview with Tricia Spellman

Can you tell us a little about yourself? Are you a full-time author?
Writing has always been my profession, even when it wasn’t my title. I began my career as a technical writer, creating use-and-care manuals and product documentation for Whirlpool. When I later stayed home with my children, I shifted into freelance writing, contributing articles to publications such as Camping World and Food & Wine. This was back when queries were mailed the old-fashioned way, complete with a self-addressed stamped envelope, and rejection letters were polite but predictable. That part of the industry hasn’t changed much. What has changed is access. Platforms like Substack and Bluesky have removed some of the gatekeeping that once made it nearly impossible to be published unless you already were. Today, I write full-time across fiction and nonfiction, blending storytelling with social commentary.

Can you tell us about A New Dawn?
A New Dawn is a political thriller with a strong romantic core that reflects the very real corruption embedded in modern systems of power. Rather than going dystopian, I deliberately chose a hopeful, almost utopian resolution. I believe hope is a necessary act of resistance. Without it, nothing changes. The story imagines what could happen if integrity, courage, and accountability actually won.

Can you tell us a little about the characters?
The characters are reflections of the world we live in, and in many ways, reflections of myself. Each one embodies a response to power, fear, or moral pressure, whether that’s resistance, adaptation, or transformation. They’re flawed, human, and shaped by circumstance, just like the rest of us.

Where is this book set, and why did you choose that location?
The story is set in New Orleans and Washington, DC. I chose New Orleans because it’s a city I know well, and because it possesses a unique energy. It’s one of the few places where life would continue, music would still play, and people would still gather even in the aftermath of chaos. That resilience felt essential to the story. The city isn’t just a backdrop; it becomes part of the narrative itself.

How can people benefit from reading A New Dawn?
Readers will come away with a clearer understanding of how political and corporate systems are stacked against ordinary people, but also with a sense of agency. The book offers a blueprint, not just for recognizing corruption, but for imagining how governance could work if it truly served the public rather than entrenched interests.

Is A New Dawn your only book?
Not at all. I’ve written novellas, guides, and an award-winning sci-fi fantasy series called The Fablecastle Chronicles, which blends fairy tales, portals, and political satire. I’ve also written some playful erotica that explores the untold questions fairy tales never answered, including what Cinderella was really practicing with a golf ball and a garden hose.

Title: A New Dawn

Author: Trina Spillman

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

Publication Date: March 1, 2026

Pages: 224

Genre: Political Thriller / Romance

Formats: Paperback, Kindle

BLURB

A catastrophic explosion at a New Orleans convention hall critically injures presidential nominee James Sinclair and ignites a national crisis. Attorney Ian McCullough soon uncovers evidence tying the attack to Vice President Jay Buckley, who has orchestrated a false-flag EMP event to mimic a Chinese assault and destabilize the country for his own rise to power. With the economy collapsing, industries crippled, and global alliances shifting against the United States, Buckley intends to weaponize fear, chaos, and national confusion to consolidate control. Secret recordings obtained by Lee Chang confirm collusion between the administration, foreign officials, and powerful tech interests. The evidence is strong enough to expose the conspiracy if Ian can deliver it safely.

Determined to return to Washington, Ian turns to naval commander Sean Hennessey and asks for a plane. Their strained past reignites when Ian finally admits how deeply Sean’s emotional withdrawal wounded him, especially after concealing the deaths of Ian’s mother, brother, and sister-in-law. Despite the unresolved pain between them, Sean agrees to help. With presidential immunity shielding those in power and time working against him, Ian risks everything to expose the conspiracy, protect James, and prevent the nation from descending into manufactured chaos.

A New Dawn is available at Amazon at https://a.co/d/7vJUkhy.

 Where to purchase the book:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08956JDBP 

https://wildrosepress.com/product/a-new-dawn/ 

BOOK EXCERPT

The explosion ripped through the hall like a hellish fireball, leaving chaos and devastation in its wake. Charred confetti rained down from above as smoke billowed through the air. The presidential nominee was missing. Ian McCullough’s heart pounded as he scanned the scene. He had to find James. The sight of the first responders rushing to aid the wounded spurred him into action. Secret service agents were already combing the debris around the stage, their movements frantic and purposeful. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian spotted a glint of something shiny on the ground, a monogrammed cufflink. Recognition struck him with a visceral force. It was one of the anniversary gifts he had given James. With desperation fueling him, Ian shouted, “Over here! He’s over here!” Ian scrambled to the edge of the collapsed stage. His desperate attempts to lift the structure were futile. The secret service detail, alongside a squad of firemen, swiftly intervened, pushing him aside to use hydraulic jacks on the massive wooden platform. The creaking and groaning of the wood echoed in Ian’s ears as they carefully raised the wreckage. Firemen pulled James out just before the stage gave way in a splintering crash. A dust cloud enveloped Ian, blurring his vision. In the haze, he glimpsed James being whisked away. Ian fought to catch up with the firemen carrying James’s unconscious body, but he was swept aside by the panicked tide of people evacuating the building.

Out on the sidewalk, Ian faced a barrage of questions from reporters. Emergency vehicles, their lights flashing, lined Convention Center Boulevard. The entire scene was a surreal, macabre circus. Spying one of the firemen who helped rescue James, Ian pushed through the throng of people. “Hey, do you know where they took the senator?” Ian screamed. “He’s being taken to University Medical Center,” the fireman replied, his face etched with concern. Ian thanked him and pushed through the crowd. The streets around the convention center, which had been cordoned off, were now choked with cars, first responders, and camera crews. Navigating through the dense, swirling crowd, Ian walked toward the French Quarter. With mechanical precision, Ian’s body moved forward while his mind remained trapped in a labyrinth of nightmarish images. The humid New Orleans air clung to his skin, thick with the mingled scents of bourbon, jasmine, and Tabasco sauce. It hung heavily, like a shroud. Ian’s mind drifted, transporting him back to that warm spring evening of March fifth, the night James had first shared his presidential ambitions. Their dining room had been bathed in soft amber candlelight, the table adorned with crisp white linens Ian had carefully pressed earlier that afternoon. Crystal wine glasses captured the flickering light, their refined edges creating small prisms that reflected across the walls. Ian had spent hours preparing a menu that told their story, each course a carefully curated celebration of their years together. The cufflinks had been his masterpiece. Crafted by an artisan who specialized in customized metalwork, they were more than mere accessories.

Each link bore James’s initials in an elegant, flowing script, the letters intertwined so intimately that they seemed to breathe with the same rhythm as their relationship. The twenty-four-carat gold caught the candlelight, warm and rich, a tangible representation of their deep, unbreakable bond. When Ian presented them to James that night, the vulnerability in his eyes spoke volumes. These were not just cufflinks but a promise, a private emblem of their commitment to one another. A violent shudder tore through Ian’s body, shattering the tender memory. Suddenly, all he could see was a blood-splattered cuff, James’s hand emerging from beneath the stage, the cufflink’s intricate engraving barely visible beneath the dried blood, a brutal testament to how quickly hope could be transformed into horror. A group of boisterous tourists, their laughter sharp and discordant, collided with Ian, jolting him from his nightmare. The French Quarter continued its relentless celebration, a cacophony of jazz and drunken revelry. He moved like a ghost among the living, barely registering the kaleidoscope of colors and sounds surrounding him. A nearby bar’s raucous applause caught his attention. As he stood at the threshold, Ian’s eyes were drawn to the television mounted above the bar. The president, a man Ian had long despised, was delivering a national address, his carefully crafted words sliding like poison into the nation’s consciousness.

– Excerpted from A New Dawn by Trina Spillman, The Wild Rose Press, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Trina Spillman, who also writes under the pen name Selene Greenleaf, crafts both practical witchcraft guides and immersive works of fiction that span romance, magical realism, and contemporary thrillers. Splitting her creative life between Colorado’s mountain landscapes and a growing library of story ideas, she blends current events, folklore, plant magic, and real-world rituals to invite readers into transformative experiences. Under Selene Greenleaf, she’s the author of Witchcraft Essentials: A Modern-Day Guide to Spells, Herbs, and Crystals; Cupid's Craft: Love Spells for Valentine's Day; and her forthcoming Plant Magic Encyclopedia: Rituals & Remedies, resources designed to help modern practitioners weave intention and botanical wisdom into everyday life. Writing as Trina Spillman, she’s best known for her engaging fairy tale retellings. Upcoming projects include: 

A New Dawn — a gripping political thriller of power, ethics, and love, to be released by The Wild Rose Press 

Collateral Justice — the powerful sequel to A New Dawn, where a hidden alliance of the world’s elite blurs the line between justice and vengeance. 

The Witches of Fablecastle— When a witch hunter’s mirror exposes her forbidden magic, Holly McCool flees through a portal to Fablecastle, only to learn she’s the one destined to stop him from tearing both worlds apart. 

The Quantum Hitchhiker’s Guide to Escaping the Matrix — a witty, mind-bending manual on how to hack reality, rewrite your personal code, and manifest with humor, consciousness, and a touch of modern witchcraft.  

Whether she’s exploring the ethics of power in a thriller or sharing herbal recipes for daily rituals, Trina/Selene’s work reflects her unwavering belief in the healing and transformative power of words.

Trina’s latest book is A New Dawn.

Visit her website at https://authortrinaspillman.com.

Connect with her on social media at:

Instagram:  https://www.instagram.com/authortrinaspillman/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18389879.Trina_Spillman

Book Spotlight Tour Stop/Giveaway: Vamps and Vendettas

 

🦇📚 Magic happens and sparks fly in the small town of Havers-By-the-Sea when a sharp-tongued vampire crosses paths with a broody gargoyle. 🦇📚

Vamps and Vendettas

Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 3

by AK Nevermore

Genre: Spicy Small Town Paranormal Romance

Karma sucks.

Ophelia Diamondé never asked to be summoned to Havers-by-the-Sea, but when the node makes her an offer she can’t refuse, she officially becomes stuck representing the crappy little town. Having to clean up their messy legal issues isn’t what she wants to be doing, but anything’s better than being returned to the vampire court’s clutches—or at least she thought so before she met the opposing counsel.

Gideon Sperry isn’t known for his patience or his giving nature, but he is one hell of a lawyer. Unfortunately, all that goes out the window when Ophelia shows up, and the lawsuit between Havers and Fayet becomes personal.

But the facts aren’t adding up. When it becomes clear that karma’s had a hand in bringing them together, they need to find a way to build a case against who’s really at fault for the turbine debacle. If they can’t, it’s not just the town itself that’s in danger, but every resident’s very lifeblood.

Magic happens and sparks fly in the small town of Havers-By-the-Sea when a sharp-tongued vampire crosses paths with a broody gargoyle. VAMPS AND VENDETTAS, a spicy slow burn paranormal romance novel in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series by AK Nevermore.

 

🦇📚 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐒 📚🦇
✦ Sassy Vampire FMC
✦ Overprotective Gargoyle MMC
✦ He Falls First
✦ Hidden Powers
✦ Loads of Snarky Banter
✦ Touch-Her-and-Die
✦ Forced Allies
✦ Dark Secret
✦ Second Chance Romance
✦ Slow Burn
✦ Small Town

💋 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 = 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️
Explicit Scenes ~ Very Hot

  

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

Prologue

Greenthorn Indoctrination Center, Vampire Tribal Lands

Ophelia sat on a hard plastic chair, clenching a mangled pamphlet between her sweaty palms. The silence in the stark, cream and beige waiting room was beyond oppressive. She’d been there since six that morning, and the hour hand on the clock above the frosted glass door had made almost a full circuit.

She riffled her hair. The wait was fucking ridiculous. What the hell was going on back there? All her forms had been completed, every legal requirement satisfied. She’d even taken the intro course to their bullshit religious instruction and been blessed by one of their preoti. This part should’ve gone faster, especially after her more-than-generous donation to the cause.

Fucking bloodsuckers.

God, she just wanted to burst through that stupid door and get this over with. Damn it. No. Breathe. She struggled to bite back her temper. Be contrite, Phe. Try to channel fucking worthiness. She snorted. Like that was hard. She was a hell of a lot farther up the food chain than the rest of the losers that’d shown up to volunteer.

Throughout the day, seats filled with indigents and the dying had slowly emptied to the right and left of her until only herself and two other people were in the room.

One of them was laid out on a hospital gurney. Bags of saline and lord knew what else hung from an IV stand beside him. The other, a woman and presumably the infirm man’s caregiver, slowly flicked through her tablet. By the way she was chewing her lower lip and shifting in her seat, whatever she was reading was juicy.

Ophelia scowled, hooking the long, jagged bangs of her pixie cut behind an ear. What the woman should be doing was reading up on how to properly care for the soon-to-be-corpse’s colostomy. Even across the room, the stench of shit was eye-watering.

What a cunty little campfire scout, all prepared for the wait. Ophelia flicked her nails and picked at the black gel tips, begrudgingly admitting that she’d been too confident she’d be one of the first volunteers called and hadn’t thought about how to pass the time. Normys looking to join the vampiric tribes and subscribe to their fucked-up religion were usually either vagrants, on death’s door, or some special kind of desperate.

Ophelia was a very healthy twenty-nine, a rising star in the litigation world, and fell squarely into the last category.

She was also positive that her soon-to-be-husband would completely lose his shit if he knew she was here, and every second that ticked past increased the probability of him figuring out where she was. Ophelia wiped her sweaty palms against her thighs, all too clearly imagining him bursting through the door, full-on gargoyle.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. These assholes needed to hurry the fuck up.

The bullshit work conference she’d invented wasn’t going to hold up to close scrutiny, but it was the best she could do on short notice. The approval for her to join the tribes had come through almost immediately, and she needed that goddamned virus.

She slowly exhaled and flipped open the mangled pamphlet for the umpteenth time, smoothing it over her bespoke, tailored slacks, glad her phone had died after the first few hours, nixing any temptation to call Deo and come clean about what she was doing.

Fuck around and find out never went over well with him, but that—and his abs—were one of the many reasons she was head over heels for the guy. No one else had ever cared enough to call her on her shit. She chewed a nail, knowing exactly what he would say about all this, but screw him. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a supe and she wasn’t. This needed to happen. She could feel it in her bones. It was the next step.

She couldn’t lose him, couldn’t think about him with someone else after the fact, and her mortality guaranteed that was gonna happen.

Yeah, over her undead body.

Her gaze dropped to the pamphlet. Rereading it was stupid. At this point, she could recite it verbatim.

“Vampirism is a sacred gift.”

Ophelia didn’t quite snort, but damn, that line got her every time. Bit of a stretch there. Though, she had to admit, the tribes had a killer marketing team. She did snort at that, running a hand over her face. God, she’d been here too long, but Vampiric Syndrome wasn’t a gift, sacred or otherwise. It was caused by a virus carried by gravers, a rare species of centipede from the eastern continent that fed on dead bodies.

Gotta love nature, right? Gross, but nothing special. Well, unless they chowed down on someone that hadn’t quite passed into the hereafter. That was unfortunate, and probably unpleasant if said undead were a supe, but if one had the questionable honor of being born a normy like her?

Hello, vampire.

Ophelia put a hand to her churning stomach. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to ingesting one of the fucking things, but if the Victorians could down tapeworms to drop a pound or seventeen, how bad could this be? Granted, tapeworms didn’t have twelve rows of razor-sharp teeth, but…

Fucking A. Who was she trying to kid? It was gonna be horrible.

God, stop being such a pussy. To be with Deo forever, she’d chase the fucking thing with a shot of broken glass if that’s what it took.

Ophelia blew out her cheeks and slumped, her tailbone throbbing from the hard plastic. It was a serious bummer she’d been inoculated for Vampiric Syndrome as a kid. Before the Purge, all you had to do was bang someone already infected to contract VS.

Which was what had kicked off the Purge, the development of the vaccine, was the reason all corpses were now cremated, and a whole host of other shit.

Including the tribes’ need for volunteers to maintain their population.

A shadow moved behind the frosted glass. Ophelia sat up as a brunette vamp with a severe bun and a nurse’s uniform straight out of the 1940s pushed through with a clipboard. A name tag at her breast read “Crake,” and the tatuaj around her eyes radiated to her temples like a spider’s web. The markings looked like a tattoo but weren’t. It was how the virus presented itself and was the basis for their fucked-up caste system.

“Ms. Diamondé?

It was about goddamn time. “Here,” Ophelia said, raising a finger before she stood. She wiped her palms on her slacks and grabbed her purse.

Nurse Crake tongued her cheek, her unnaturally red lips pressed together. She looked Ophelia up and down before checking off something on her clipboard and gesturing for her to follow.

The hallway beyond was as stark as the waiting room had been. White walls, sanitary molding, doors with stainless steel kickplates. All of those had bars dropped across them, moans and thumps coming from within. One of the long fluorescent bulbs flickered above.

“Birthdate?” the nurse asked, her dark eyes on the clipboard.

Something hit one of the doors as they passed, and Ophelia adjusted her purse higher onto her shoulder. “Uh, November third, 2015.”

“And you’re here because…?” The nurse flicked through a bunch of papers, and Ophelia caught a flash of her signature at the bottom of one of the many consent forms she’d signed.

She wet her lips. “Vampirism speaks to me,” she bullshitted, though it wasn’t totally a lie. The part where it extended one’s existence indefinitely was absolutely calling her name. The rest of it could fuck off, but if she had to eat a bug then drink blood to make that happen, so be it.

Nurse Crake glanced at her askance like she knew Ophelia was full of shit. Well, at least she wasn’t stupid. She stopped at a door and pushed it open, gesturing for Ophelia to go in.

The room beyond looked like every other doctor’s office she’d ever been in. Padded, papered table, crappy cream and blue wallpaper, a wheeled, stainless steel table, and a little laminate counter area with a tiny sink and canisters of swabs and cotton balls.

“Remove your clothes and put them and the rest of your belongings in here,” Nurse Crake said, handing over a clear plastic drawstring bag with Ophelia’s name scrawled on it. “There’s a gown on the table, ties in the back. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Ophelia took a deep breath before beginning to undress. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her slacks and wriggled out of them. Deo. Think about Deo. A visual of the mountainous, gruff blond man flashed across her mind’s eye. The way his stubble glinted on his square jaw, his intense turquoise eyes…

“It doesn’t matter how much time we have together, Phe. We’ll make the most of what we have, and I’ll love you until the end…”

But it did matter. She flicked a hand across her cheek. The thought of growing old while he stayed eternally young—there wasn’t a fucking chance she was going to subject him to mashing up her food and changing her diapers. And he would, damn him. No. This would take all of that off the table. It was the only way they could be together without her fucking mortality hanging over them like a shroud.

She tied the gown and sat on the table, paper crinkling beneath her. Her pulse raced. He was going to be so angry with her, but he’d get over it…right? He always did. And then they could be together forever. With her credentials, whatever tribe she was assigned to would give her a dispensation to work outside the tribal lands.

The mandatory tithe her position at the firm would provide all but guaranteed that. She’d done the research. Save for two she couldn’t track down, every volunteer since the Purge with a high-paying career had returned to their normy lives. Tithing was how the tribes were funded, and her salary was three times what the majority of them made.

Then why are you sweating so much?

Fuck. She raked a hand through her hair. Did it matter? Introspection was pointless and not her jam to begin with. For better or worse, this was happening.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it was pushed open. A thin, dark-haired vamp in a lab coat came into the room with another, younger male and Nurse Crake behind them. She carried a stainless steel tray. A crimson velvet cloth covered whatever was on it. She set it by the padded table, then busied herself by the counter.

The dark-haired vamp flipped through her chart, pursing his lips, and pushed up his glasses. The tatuaj beneath them were the same webbed design as Nurse Crake’s and the other vampire’s. Guess there was a tribe of medics.

“Ms. Diamondé,” the dark-haired vamp said. “I’m Doctor Wong, and this is my intern, Louis. He’ll be observing today, unless you have any objection?”

“Nope.” As long as they made her into a vampire, Ophelia didn’t care if they did it on stage and sold tickets.

“Wonderful.” He smiled, the tips of his pointed incisors gleaming. “I apologize for the wait, but in cases such as yours, we like to give the applicants time to fully consider their commitment to our cause.”

Seriously? That’d been some kind of test? Ophelia bit back a snarky retort, the paper drape crinkling beneath her. “Of course.” She smiled back, hoping it looked more genuine than it was. “Completely understandable. However, I am fully committed.”

The doctor nodded, and Nurse Crake took Ophelia’s arm, swabbing it to install a port for an IV. Ophelia winced at the pinch. The woman might not be particularly pleasant, but she was efficient.

“Well, then everything appears to be in order,” the doctor said, flipping through pages as the nurse sent a burst of frigid saline through the IV. Louis scanned the chart over the doctor’s shoulder, reading along with him and taking notes. “I see you’ve completed the first course of religious instruction as well. Highly commendable. Are we ready to proceed?” he asked Crake. At her nod, his eyes flicked to Ophelia.

She swallowed roughly, her mouth dry. “Please.”

Doctor Wong and Nurse Crake exchanged a glance.

“Then lie back to be secured,” the doctor said, reaching for a box of blue gloves on the counter. “The process doesn’t take very long, and as soon as we’ve finished here, you’ll be transported to the applicable tribe’s sect for recovery. That usually takes two to three days, and your reintroduction will be evaluated based on how well you adapt to reanimation.”

Ophelia nodded, fighting a sudden burst of anxiety. The wedding was in a week, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she was missing it. You can do this, Phe.

She lay back, and Nurse Crake moved to her side, pulling thick leather straps from the sides of the table. She buckled them around Ophelia’s torso and forehead, then pulled out others for her arms and wrists.

“For your safety.” Crake smiled, her grin much more predatory than the good doctor’s and about as legitimate as Ophelia’s had been. The nurse filled a hypodermic, then plinked it.

“Ah, what is your preferred orifice?” the doctor asked.

Ophelia started, her gaze fixed on the needle. “What is that?”

“A lethal injection,” he murmured, pushing up his glasses and still scanning her chart. “Where would you prefer the vessel to make entry? It’s not listed here.”

“I-I thought I had to eat it?” Ophelia stammered.

“Any hole will do,” the nurse murmured with a smirk, setting the needle aside to transition the end of the table flat and secure Ophelia’s legs. A slot opened beneath her rear and Crake yanked up the drape leaving Ophelia’s bare ass to dangle.

Her nether regions clenched. She hadn’t— “Mouth. Mouth is fine.”

The doctor grunted and reverently folded back the crimson cloth. He murmured something and made a solemn gesture before lifting a low jar that’d been nestled on a cushion.

Ophelia’s breath sped at the writhing contents, reconsidering all of her life choices. No. She could do this for Deo. For them, for their future.

The doctor shook the jar, sending the churning mass to the bottom before setting it back on the cushion and opening the lid. Decay laced the air. He picked up a pair of long, silver tweezers and plucked out a flailing insect. Its fanged maw gaped as it struggled, twisting and curling up on itself.

“Injection please.”

Nurse Crake jammed the needle into the IV’s port, and a horrible, searing burn sped up Ophelia’s arm. She whimpered at the rush of heat cresting over her, her heart stuttering. Its fluttering beat a mantra: For Deo, for Deo…for Deo…

The doctor held the irate centipede above her. “Waiting for pupil dilation…and open.”

Her lips refused to cooperate.

The doctor frowned and gripped her jaw—

The centipede fell from his grasp and hit Ophelia’s face with a cold, chitinous slap. She recoiled as it flipped, its tiny legs scrabbling to grip her skin. Its length conformed to the contour of her cheek and then skittered sinuously to her nostril. Her arms jerked against her restraints, her head unable to thrash, and a terrible lethargy stealing over her. Heart slowing, her vision grayed, fingers twitching, mind screaming: get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!

It wriggled into her nasal cavity, clawing into her sinuses, and a garbled moan slipped from her lips. Blinding agony seared across her vision, and she screamed, sharp teeth feasting inside her skull. Her eyes watered. No, it was too hot for tears, the scent of copper thick, cloying the back of her throat. Her pores wept, her skin coated with a slick, sticky film, and the air redolent with the scent of blood.

Nurse Crake licked her lips.

An unnatural numbness bloomed from the bridge of Ophelia’s nose, radiating from her eye sockets, and the rest of her body seized. Foam flecked her lips, her eyes rolling back into her head. A bright, white light shone down for a moment and was ripped away, along with any sense of peace she’d ever felt. Nothing was left but searing, burning, unrelenting pain.

Emotion dissolved beneath it, thoughts a murky haze, her body unresponsive. She was hollow, her mind a void. Empty.

“Very good. It’s taking well. Note the patient has entered rigor. Her sudden pallor coinciding with the sheen of blood-fever and the emergence of the tatuaj around her eyes, there and there…” the doctor said, pointing with his pen, his voice distant and tinny. A godawful cramp went through her body, and a horrific, spattering stench filled the air. “Bowels voided…” He frowned. “Someone didn’t fast as instructed.”

The urge to laugh burbled up Ophelia’s throat, spittle foaming from her mouth. Agony morphed into a bizarre euphoria, her limbs leaden and the feeling of an immense weight crushing down on her. Her heart, still.

Dead.

A wrenching shudder wracked her body as her heart spasmed, once, twice, then sluggishly began to beat again. She strained against the straps pinning her to the table, her chest heaving with the effort.

“Very good,” the doctor murmured.

The room came back into focus, sounds sharper than they should be. The flow of ink from the doctor’s pen as he wrote. Loose strands of Crake’s hair rubbing against one another. The slow scrape of Louis’s blink.

“What the fuck?” Ophelia gasped, her tongue thick and her eyes darting, colors far more vivid than they had been. Bright, everything was too damned bright.

“Welcome back, Ms. Diamondé. Disorientation is a normal side effect of transitioning,” the doctor said absently, busy making notes. “Rest assured, any increased sensitivities you may be experiencing will lessen over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours as the virus continues the reanimation process.” He stabbed the pen against the clipboard, finished with whatever he was writing, and set it aside with a wide smile. “Now, let’s see where we’ll be sending you, shall we?”

Crake wheeled over a tray. The doctor snugged his gloves before taking a pair of hemostats from the nurse and dipping a wad of gauze into a yellow solution. He dragged it across Ophelia’s brow, then discarded it almost immediately for another, the tiny pad thick with gore.

Ophelia winced at the rough drag of it across her skin. Jesus Chri—

Agony flared through her skull, and she cried out. The doctor hummed above her and swapped out the gauze again. “You need to put a call in to Vesper,” he murmured.

“Vesper?” the nurse spat out behind him, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Mmm” he hummed again, swabbing. “The tatuaj are gifted as the Great One wills, and whom are we to judge which tribe she’s been deemed worthy of?”

“But—” Crake pushed forward, her eyes narrowing above pinched lips. “I’ll alert the court.” She scowled and left the room. Louis raced after her, his face white.

“What—what’s happening?” Ophelia lisped, her tongue fumbling against sharp incisors. A terrible thirst had overcome her, making it hard to think. She licked her parched lips, the acrid taste of her own sweat roiling her stomach. Vesper? She couldn’t remember a tribe called Vesper.

“Your transition may have very well just signed the death warrants of everyone who witnessed it,” the doctor said, snapping off his gloves. “Prince Kremlyn suffers no rivals for his concubine’s attentions.”

What? Ophelia’s mind raced. No. She couldn’t be a—Deo. The wedding. She’d left her engagement ring by the sink. That last fight they’d had. He’d think she abandoned him, that she’d run. “No, no. I-I’m not a concubine, I’m an attorney—”

“You are whatever the tatuaj has decreed,” the doctor said firmly, moving to the door. “Someone will be in to take you to seclusion. Whatever call to vampirism you felt, I very much hope it keeps you warm at the citadel. You won’t be leaving it.”

The door shut behind him with an ominous click, and Ophelia’s breath stuttered. The citadel? No, that was impossible. What had she done, what had she done? Oh, God—

Agony bloomed through her skull at the word, and she whimpered, tears tracking from the corners of her eyes. The awful reality of her actions crashed down around her, and an insatiable thirst gnawed at her hollowed insides.

The names of the women she couldn’t track down—the two who had disappeared—flitted through her mind, along with a very bad feeling that she’d be joining them.

**Don’t miss the other books in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series!**

Weres and Witchery

Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 1

 

A sassy witch with curves for days stirs up passion with an irresistible alpha shifter.

 

Get it on Amazon

 

 

Wards and Warlocks

Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 2

 

A sassy warlock with oodles of style has sparks fly with an angsty shifter.

 

Get it on Amazon

AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.

Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time.

She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.

 

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