Weather Child

So here is the day.

It’s been over six years since I wrote Weather Child, and five since I first podcast the story. Despite all that time, this is still a story that is very dear to my heart.

I don’t think I could quantify how many stories of family, and fond memories of New Zealand are contained in this novel. Faith and Jack are so deeply woven into my past, that is seems strange that they are now out there on the page, and in your e-readers.

If you like magic, romance and adventure, run through with history and mystery, this is the story for you. It’s a love song, not only between two people, but also about a place and time now distant.

It is also a story of determination, not only of the characters, but mine. Weather Child is firmly a story of New Zealand, and apparently publishers in New York don’t think Americans are capable of enjoying those sort of stories—even though they manage quite fine with other, more fantastical worlds. I find it ironic that this year a story set in New Zealand won the Booker Prize…so perhaps this is the perfect time for Weather Child.

You can now purchase the story, along with the beautiful cover by Alex White at your favorite e-book store of choice, and even if you want to see the beauty of a printed page, I have you covered there too. Katie Bryski and Tee Morris did the layout and it is full of Art Deco wonderfulness that matches the time period it is set in.

Above all, even if you do not buy the book, please help spread the word. This is entirely my own endeavor and without people knowing about it, it dies on the vine. I really do have a wonderful sequel planned, so spread the word on your social media networks, write reviews, and talk it up.

Here’s where you can find it

Ebook

Amazon – Barnes & Noble – Smashwords – Kobo

Trade paperback

Amazon

Sample from Weather Child: Book One of the Awakened.

If there was one thing Jack’s mother believed in, it was aiding those not as lucky as she. He recalled her bustling around the kitchen, gathering supplies for those who had none, and her voice had been so happy. “If it wasn’t for someone like me, your own father would have died in England—think about that.”

He had and did again. The yawning chasm of loss started to open up before him. “I would like to see her grave at least…”

“You shall not!” Royal roared, throwing back his chair. “Keep your foul magic ridden self away from it. Let her rest in peace!”

Jack felt rage and grief near to choking his throat. “Don’t tell me then! I’ll find out from Olive!”

“You’re not to see your sister either,” his father spat. “She’s to keep away—or be disinherited just like you.”

It was getting hot under his uniform. Jack tried to swallow his rage, and find that icy cool place he’d thought he’d mastered. “I could look after her, and better than you ever looked after Mother…”

He ducked on instinct. Royal’s half-empty whiskey glass smashed spectacularly just where his head had been. Without his battle trained reflexes, Jack might have well been killed on his first day back in the country.

The lamp above their heads flared once, casting blinding light into the room for a brief instant before shattering. Royal was now the one forced back, his eyes wide.

A rumble echoed in the study. Jack’s father’s rows and rows of books, leather-bound and weighty, danced in the shelves in random patterns like Irish jiggers gone mad. The brass and oak desk twisted on itself as if it were made of Indian rubber and sent the decanter of whiskey flying. His father stepped back in horror—not at what was happening, but who was causing it.

“Demon!” he shouted one hand already searching about him for something else to hurl. “Thank God your mother is not alive to see this! Get out of this house!”

Jack stood there a moment, just to make sure the old man understood it was going to be his own decision to leave. He tried to quiet his magic, but it was unreliable as ever and took a while to obey. Finally, the books dropped back into place with a thump that made Royal jump, and the desk settled back into its spot. Only the broken light bulb and the spilled whiskey told that anything strange had just happened.

Father and son glared at each other in the half-light. Jack smiled and tucked both hands into his pockets, showing the old crook that he wasn’t going to offer him physical violence. The shattered light fixture swung and creaked in the quiet.

“Ashamed of what I am now, Father?” Jack asked. “Afraid that the old boys down at the Club will think you did this somehow? It’s awfully common to have a magician in the family isn’t it?”