Harpy Gumbo, Broke in Magic Book 2

Evil has already destroyed her heart  —  now it wants to ruin the world. 

Trini is built for murder. A harpy who escaped a lifetime of abuse, she struggles with everything and her fight or flight instincts leave blood and tears in her wake. 

Wellie is pulled in a direction he never expects  —  to Trini’s spirit. He searches to find her, convinced that she is the one for him. Whether he can survive her is another matter. 

Deep in the center of New Orleans the intersection of real and magical worlds is hidden — a portal now under attack by dark forces. The Vapors are determined to upend the balance between light and dark. Their plot is to force the portal to open, but there is one problem — Trini holds the key.  The course of humanity hinges on Trini’s ability to overcome her past. Standing at the edge of another Dark Ages, Wellie is willing to die to protect Trini. The question is — is Trini willing to let go and live for him? 

If you love a fast-paced good vs. evil tale, grab Harpy Gumbo!

Excerpt:

High John thrummed in the mojo bag on his chest, and Wellie paused, letting the thick New Orleans air settle as he listened, attuned to the softest scrape. Turning in a slow scan, his eyes trailed across the huge St. Louis Cathedral.

There.

The movement was a night’s whisper as the gargoyle shifted. Wellie resumed his walk, reaching the end of the block and turning, lost to the night behind the great iron gates. 

With easy strength, he climbed the iron. A soft thud accompanied his landing, sauntering in the greasy wind toward the small side gate. As a boy, he’d slipped through here to get into the cathedral. The vibration of St. Louis called him, even at age nine, and tonight it covered his skin, a soul speak of years of prayer, mayhem, sin, and the other world, the magic piece, that danced within the uneasy jig of humanity.

Cloaked in the familiar odors of incense, mold, and wax, Wellie moved with light steps, careful not to grind grit onto the stone and announce himself. He placed his feet, back for a moment in the bayou, with the skill of walking on the water, finding each root and stone, and meandering the old path to the center.  Wellie climbed, headed for the roof.

He paused near the top, surprised at the open door and the swirling wind.

Something… or one… is up here. This door should be locked. 

Fingers tapped the unneeded key in his pocket as he paused. High John, the entity Wellie called forth earlier in the year to save his Cajun ass, hummed from the mojo bag strung around his neck. His hand closed around the worn white bag, greying from use, that held his intermediary helpmate. He raised the bag to his lips in a soundless whisper.

“High John, High John, High John. This is not as it should be. Keep me from harm.”

The bag moved under his fingertips, and Wellie tucked it back under his shirt before stepping through the door. The grimy stones of the walls and floor opened out onto the city night, the blinking glow of the sin and sanctity of a city that saw everything on both sides of the invisible line.

Magic’s cradle. One of several.

The balcony’s low stone railing framed two giant stone gargoyles. One sported the face of a demonic monkey, the other a fierce hawk. 

Now we’re cookin’. That bird used to be a lion.

High John lit up, and Wellie stood in the burning, watching the hawk, waiting for the shift. 

Even knowing it was coming, the explosion of movement knocked him sideways, his red curly head cracking against the stone with a sickening squish. Pain rocked him back to his senses as huge talons pierced his ribcage. White light blasted under his shirt and the hawk screeched, falling in an awkward flop next to Wellie.

“What did you do, human?”

The gargoyle’s stone softened and began to slide. Wellie touched the back of his head, sticky with blood.

“I could ask the same of you.” 

Her shift was nearly complete. The glow of the rising oblique moon exposed smooth skin, round breasts and long lean legs. Dark red hair swept behind her head in a jay’s crest, and her fingers and toes were unusually long. Wellie took in the red curls deepening into a vee, the rest a mystery, and forced himself to meet green eyes.

“I did nothing, and you came anyway. I should kill you, shred your body, and feed you to the ravens and crows!”

“You learned you can’t. That’s an idle threat.” Under his shirt, the healing heat of the mojo bag warmed his skin, his headache fading as the blood flow seeped to a trickle, then stopped. 

“Leave this place,” her voice, shrill, cut across his senses. 

She is a predator; she’s pulling a flight reaction from me. Now, that’s interesting.

“I think not,” Wellie rose to his feet, hiding the effort it took to make it look easy. His brown eyes never left hers. He put his hands into his pockets.

She attacked, using arms and legs to pin his biceps, believing his hands contained. Wellie eased a red stone from his right pocket and pressed it against the back of her clenched thigh. 

She blew off him, tumbling before landing near the top of the stairs, fingers and toes gripping the jamb on instinct to keep her from falling through the entrance into the stairwell. 

“What are you,” she hissed, eyes narrowed in fury.

“I’m someone who knows the Blood of Isis will protect me from you,” Wellie held up the small red stone amulet, watching her cringe, before palming it. “I’m curious to learn what you are, besides gorgeous and destructive.”

“You find me beautiful?” She rose, walking from the stairway opening toward him, swaying while running her hands over her breasts, along her ribs and over her undulating hips. She stopped just out of reach. Her long fingers brushed her mound before lightly scratching up her belly. “Perhaps you think of helping yourself?”