Stovall realized story telling (specifically fiction) became her passion. Anything that told a story, be it a movie, book, video game or comic, she had to experience. Now, as a professor and author, Stovall wants to add her voice to the myriad of stories in the world and she hopes you enjoy.
Release Date: November 19th, 2019
A secret war of sorcerers threatens to tear the world apart.
The year is 1917, and the Russian Empire is on the verge of collapse.
Florence Cavell—codename Geist—takes her special forces team of sorcerers into allied territory in an effort to hunt down spies and keep the Russian royals alive. If the Russian Empire falls, the Germans and Austro-Hungarians will turn their full attention to France and Britain. That can't be allowed to happen.
Unfortunately for Geist, the enemy has sent the Eyes of the Kaiser, specialists who hunt and destroy sorcerers. And they came prepared to eliminate not only the Russian royalty, but the Ethereal Squadron as well.
EXCERPT
Geist
made an art of stealth.
She slipped through the moonlight
shadows around the Watson Manor House, keeping to the grass to stifle the
sounds of her steps. Cloaked in invisibility, she made her way across the vast
front yard. Her sorcery—specter sorcery—gave her all the power and versatility
of a ghost.
Geist.
German for ghost. The magics in her
blood had defined her codename.
Once she reached the west wall of
the manor, Geist peered in through the nearest window. No lamps. No electric
lights. And the crescent moon didn’t help with visibility. Despite those
limitations, Geist took in a deep breath and calmed herself. Specter sorcery
gave her the portfolio of a ghost, but apex sorcery gave her all the superhuman
abilities of a peerless predator. Like any jungle cat, she saw through the dim
lighting, her vision perfect and unobscured by darkness.
The Watson Manor House, built in
1837, had all the posh and luxury of a grand palace. The ceilings were carved
into twisting, vine-like designs, the marble tiles were arranged to create smoke
patterns, and massive paintings adorned every wall. Most notable were the
bronze, iron, and steel statues of people long since dead. A statue for every
corner of the room.
Although it was midnight, someone
should’ve been awake and walking the manor—house staff who tended to the
fireplaces or groundskeepers going about their duties while the lord slept.
Instead, the chimneys were cold and
the estate as quiet as a graveyard.
With enough focus, Geist stepped
through the manor wall, her body, Springfield rifle, and uniform incorporeal
until she reached the other side. A shiver ran down her spine as she released
the magic. A twisted scar on her wrist burned afterward—a souvenir she had
acquired in the German trenches. Unlike a knife or bullet scar, the waxy sheen
on her wrist represented damage on a magical level. She pulled her sleeve down
to hide it and suppressed the terrible memories associated with the event.
Only
fools trip on what’s behind them, Geist thought as she examined the dusty
dining table and china cabinets. No one had used either in some time.
Geist snuck across the room and into
the nearby hallway.
The Watsons were sorcerers with an
unusual sorcery—they could shape metal as if it were malleable clay, and while
most Watsons used it for artistry, as evidenced by their many ornate statues,
some used the magic for crafting weapons. They had provided specialty equipment
for the Allies, outfitting soldier sorcerers in the Ethereal Squadron.
But
no one had heard from them in weeks. No letters. No shipments. Not even the
nearby town of St. Peter Port had any information. The Watsons allowed their
servants to live on their property, and the deliverymen couldn’t get past the
gate. Their sudden seclusion baffled everyone.
Which
was why Geist had been sent. She needed to investigate their disappearance and
report back to the Ethereal Squadron in Verdun.
Please let me find
someone here, Geist thought. Anyone.
The
wood floor threatened to creak if Geist became careless. She took her time and
tiptoed through the dark atmosphere of the Watson Manor House. The shadows of
the copper statues created human silhouettes on walls, and while a civilian
might feel terror for the unknown, Geist had been through hell and back.
She
chuckled to herself. I’m the thing
lurking in the darkness that men fear.
After
slinking through the foyer and making her way upstairs, Geist slowed and
crouched close to the ground, hoping to find signs of a struggle. Sure enough,
when she came to the bedrooms, she found the hallway carpets disturbed and
upturned at the edges. Instead of opening the doors and potentially alerting
someone to her presence, Geist ghosted through the wood, maintaining her
invisibility and becoming incorporeal.
A
child’s bedroom.
It
took Geist a few moments to take in all the details. Stuffed animals. Dolls.
Blocks stacked into a house-like shape. She caught her breath when she examined
the bed.
Pink
sheets and a white comforter were twisted around the pale corpse of an eight
year old. Geist walked over, her teeth gritted. Apex sorcery heightened all her
senses. When she strained her ears, she couldn’t hear shallow breaths, or even
a heartbeat.
Geist
touched the skin of the corpse and recoiled. The icy chill of death unnerved
her more than the thought of battlefields and combat. The child had died long
ago.
She
unrolled the body from the sheets. Her hands shook as she pulled back the
collar of the child’s dress. Deep puncture wounds over the jugulars told a
terrible story of a slow death, and the bruises on the arms screamed struggle
and terror. But there wasn’t any blood. None on the dress. None on the sheets.
None
left to coagulate in the body.
Geist
didn’t look at the corpse’s face. Instead, she covered the body once she had
concluded her examination, determined to give the little girl dignity, even if
she wasn’t alive to appreciate it.
After
a brief moment to steady her breathing, Geist made her way to the next bedroom.
A little boy, two years younger than the girl, sat atop his bed in a similar
fashion. Cold to the touch and drained of all blood. Nothing but a husk of his
former self and shriveled from decay.
The
next room was the same. A small child, barely able to walk. The master bedroom,
on the other hand, had two corpses, but the room itself had been twisted with
bits of metal—even the iron bars over the windows and copper bedframe were
warped. Had a fight broken out? Geist took note of the destruction, especially
the shattered vase and bullet holes in the wall. One of the corpses held a gun.
With
her heart pounding in her chest, Geist made her way back downstairs. War took
its toll on everyone, but nothing stung more than seeing defenseless children
wrapped up in the violence. She entered the servants’ quarters and gagged on
the strong copper scent that wafted out.
Ten
men and women lay in the corner of the room, their necks slashed, their clothes
and beds black with dried blood. The whole room screamed massacre. If there had been a struggle, Geist couldn’t detect it,
which meant fiends had slipped into the sleeping quarters, cut their throats
without any of the other servants waking, and then stacked them in the corner.
Sorcerers
were far stronger than the average man, and the trained soldiers who fought in
the war were far scarier than anything else. The servants never stood a chance,
even if they had been awake.
Geist exited the room and searched
the rest of the house, her frustration turning to poison in her system without
an outlet. Someone should pay for this. A
man of honor would never have participated in such a slaughter.
Her findings were what she had
feared—every Watson sorcerer had been drained of blood while every civilian in
their employ had been murdered.
Geist exited the house, her
concentration wavering. With each disturbing thought, her invisibility slipped.
She walked down the main road of the house, confident the murderers had left
the manor days prior.
Two members of the Ethereal Squadron
awaited her at the gates. Even without her apex sorcery to see through the
shroud of darkness, Geist knew them by mannerisms alone. One fidgeted with his
belt and backpack while the other stood perfectly still, coiled to strike like
only trained killers could.
“Geist?” the fidgety one called out.
“Thank goodness you came back.”
“What did I tell you?” the other
growled. “Of course she would return.”
“She was gone for over ten minutes.
That’s longer than her average whenever she goes to investigate.”
“I’m fine,” Geist said with a single
chuckle. “You fuss too much, Battery.”
Battery stepped out into the
moonlight, his khaki British uniform a sight for sore eyes. He stood the same
height as Geist, shorter than most in the Allied forces, but not by much. His
youthful facial features and lack of definition hinted at his age. Despite his
lack of stature, he stood straight and offered her a smile.
“I’m sorry I doubted,” he said. “But
I couldn’t imagine this war without you. Who would lead our team?”
The second soldier scoffed. “She can
handle herself. And if anything had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in to kill it.”
He stepped out to stand next to
Battery, a cold glare set on his face as though it were tattoo—permanent and
stark. Even if he had an unwelcoming demeanor, Geist still smiled upon seeming
him.
Vergess. A German defector to the
United States, and one of her most trusted teammates. He wore the drab olive
uniform of the American soldiers, complete with a 48-star American flag. While
the United States hadn’t officially joined the war efforts, sorcerers weren’t
bound by the same restrictions as the average man. Many volunteered for the
Ethereal Squadron and were accepted into the ranks after agreeing to follow the
instructions of British and French commanders.
“Wie
geht es dir?” Vergess asked, his German smooth and natural.
“I’m fine,” Geist replied and with
an exhale. “But the Watsons aren’t as lucky.”
Battery shot Vergess a sidelong
glance. “I knew it. You were worried
about her.” Then he turned back to Geist. “Well, I came prepared. If the
Watsons are dead, we should use the camera to record the evidence. It’ll take
me a few minutes to set up, but I understand how to use it.”
“Didn’t you set a camera on fire back
at the base?” Vergess asked with a chuckle.
“Th-that’s not accurate! Tinker
played a trick on me!” Battery straightened the straps of his backpack.
“Besides, I read the instruction manual and trained with the cameramen of the
87th regiment. I’m a professional now.”
Battery’s huge backpack carried a
giant box made of mahogany wood and steel hinges. He kept the tripod strapped
to the outside. The entire getup appeared cumbersome, and the straps of the
backpack dug deep into Battery’s shoulders.
Geist didn’t understand cameras. All
the reporters said this would be the
first war truly captured in detail, yet they never explained how. Their boxes of lights and pictures
confused everyone. It wasn’t magic—Geist could understand magic—yet their
photographs took still images of reality and made them permanent.
“There are corpses in all the
bedrooms,” Geist whispered. “And the servants are dead in their quarters. If
you want photographs, make it quick. All the sorcerers were drained of their
blood.”
Both Vergess and Battery tensed,
their eyes going wide.
“You think Abomination Soldiers
targeted them?” Vergess asked.
“Yes.”
They all knew why.
Before the Great War, sorcerers
could only develop magic that was in their bloodline. But after the war
started—once the Germans and the Austro-Hungarians began fiddling with
technologies never thought of—they developed Grave-Maker Gas. It melted flesh
together at a baser level, creating deformed monsters of multiple people or
animals. They used the gas to melt blood into their bodies in order to steal
the magics from other sorcerers.
And now they were collecting rare
samples.
Geist’s mouth tasted of cotton.
“Major Reese needs to know about
this,” Battery said. He hustled past Geist and headed toward the Watson Manor
House. “I’ll be done soon.”
Vergess shook his head. “I can’t
believe they’re acting this fast. Especially after we destroyed their stores of
gas during the assault on Paris. Do they really have more?”
“Maybe they’re just collecting blood
for once they have it,” Geist muttered. “Either way, we need to stay on guard.
If they catch any of us, they’ll drain us dry.”
Even muttering the phrase they’ll drain us dry sent a shiver down
her spine. She knew the enemy wouldn’t hesitate, considering her father and
ex-fiancé were top military officers. They had both tried to kill her in the
past, and she didn’t see why they would stop now that they had a way to steal
her specter and apex sorcery.
Geist glanced back at Battery. He
came from a long line of sorcerers with rare magic. And not just one magic, but
untold numbers. Would he be a target? The thought lingered in her mind for a
prolonged moment.
“Stay with him,” Geist commanded,
“while he takes his photos. I’ll go to the port and make sure our ship is ready
to take us back to Le Havre.”
Vergess replied with a curt nod.
Blick
turned to Geist with a coy smile. “The grand duchess wants to see you alone?
You’re a real charmer.”
She shook her head. “Now isn’t the
time for games.”
“I bet the duchess asks you for a
dance.”
“For both our sakes, I hope she
doesn’t,” Geist quipped.
Battery turned to her, his brows
knitted together. “Wait, you don’t know how to dance?”
Everyone in the room stopped what
they were doing and stared. The collective silence bothered Geist more than the
question. Of course she knew how to dance! It had been one of the many lessons
taught to her by tutors from all around the world. That wasn’t the problem.
“I’m sure the grand duchess will
want a man to dance with her,” Geist
drawled. “I was taught the steps for a woman. You can see how this will go
poorly.”
“Oh,” Battery muttered. “I hadn’t
thought of that.” He tapped his chin for a moment before smiling. Then he stood
and held out his hand. “Well, it should be a simple task to teach you the
opposite steps. I can help.”
Tempted by his offer, Geist got to
her feet, though her whole body felt cold and distant. She didn’t want to risk
exposing herself for some recognition from the tsar. She just wanted to
complete the operation and leave.
Battery kept his hand out, but
Vergess pushed it aside. He stepped in front of Geist and held out his hands.
“I’ll do it,” he stated.
Of the two options, Geist preferred
Vergess’s instruction. Then again, she didn’t want to learn how to dance in
front of her squad. Stumbling around like a drunkard wasn’t high on her list of
team bonding.
Geist hesitantly placed her hands on
top of Vergess’s. He turned them around. “You hold the woman’s hands,” he said.
“You control what’s going on.” Then he nudged her, as if urging her to start
the dance.
The others got out of their seats,
moved the furniture to the edge of the room, and then leaned against the wall.
They watched with amused half-smiles—even Defiant, who squinted the entire
time. It was enough to twist Geist’s stomach into knots.
Please,
God. What have I done to deserve this?
She started with a few slow steps.
Vergess urged Geist to go faster, even though they had no music to work with.
Which meant everything happened in
painful silence.
While Geist enjoyed her close
proximity to Vergess—especially since no one could complain—she couldn’t enjoy
a second of the event. She stutter-stepped around, hesitated for a few seconds,
and pulled Vergess along by the hands, knowing full well she looked like a
childish amateur. I’m such a fool,
she thought, unable to look Vergess in the eye for fear of ridicule and
mockery. Why am I even doing this?
For the past few years, she had
trained, killed, and fought in a bloody war, yet the thought of playing the man
in a ballroom dance was the thing that crippled her confidence. She had no idea
what she was supposed to do, and half the time she continued to slip back into
the role of the woman, secretly hoping Vergess would just take over so she
could be done with the “lesson.”
“Relax,” Vergess whispered.
So
damn easy to say.
And it didn’t make things better
that the others were muttering amongst themselves.
Then Blick snorted. “You’re
terrible.”
Geist ripped her hands away from
Vergess and turned away. “Yes. I agree. We should stop this.”
“What?” Blick said. “We don’t want
to risk offending the tsar and his family, remember?”
Victory wheeled on his younger
brother, a scowl that could wilt plants. Blick chortled, in no way intimidated.
“You should practice,” Vergess said.
“Just try again.”
“Why don’t you try explaining what
she’s doing wrong?” Dreamer interjected.
“She can learn by doing.”
“A proper teacher uses every tool to
teach a student.”
“Yes, well, perhaps explaining the dance isn’t my forte,”
Vergess barked. “Why don’t you tell
her?”
Dreamer shook his head. “I don’t
know how to dance. That wasn’t a skill taught to eunuchs.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t offer
advice on matters you know nothing of.”
The odd argument got the others
tense. Vergess and Dreamer stared for a long moment, but after exhaling, both
men turned away. Vergess returned his attention to Geist and held out his hand,
ready to practice again.
“Why don’t I try?” Victory said.
He
walked around his chair, one arm still in a sling, but he held himself like
only a gentleman could. Then he offered his good hand and smiled.
With his aristocratic upbringing,
Geist figured Victory would know best. She exhaled and took his hand. The look
Vergess gave her when she passed—it was fleeting—was like he wanted to object,
but couldn’t.
“You don’t need to worry about the
grand duchess discovering your secret,” Victory said. “She won’t have her hands
all over you. That’s improper.” He motioned to his hip. “You place your hand
here. She will place a hand on your shoulder. And while you may come together
in the dance, I doubt she will notice anything through the layers of formal
clothing.”
“Th-thanks,” Geist muttered. The
simple explanation did put her at ease.
Victory continued, “The key to
leading a dance is to control everything from your torso—the core momentum
coming from your center of gravity. The woman may be holding one of your hands,
but she’ll feel the way you shift from your torso first.”
When Victory swayed side to side,
Geist felt the movement. It dawned on her then, like someone pulling back the
curtains to reveal the truth. Dancing did come from the torso. Why had she been
trying to pull Vergess by the hands? It seemed so foolish now.
“You try,” Victory said.
Although she still felt ridiculous,
Geist attempted to lead Victory around the room. To her surprise, he began
humming. Although she had never considered his voice soothing or lyrical, the
pleasant melody he provided for their faux dance reminded her of a quiet
evening in London she once shared with her mother and younger brother, Dietrich. It made it easy to
keep pace and focus on the footwork. Much easier than silence.
The others whispered among
themselves, but Geist didn’t feel as ridiculous as before. At least I’m actually dancing.
Halfway around the room, Geist
stared up at Victory, closer than she had ever been with him before. He had a
slight scar over his right eye—one that altered the way his eyebrow grew and
affected his eyelashes. He had gotten the scar when they fought the German
U-boat. A decision Geist had made. During the fight, a piece of glass had dug
its way into his face, and Cross didn’t get a chance to heal Victory until
weeks later.
Then Geist glanced down at Victory’s
arm resting in the sling.
That
was my fault, too.
Victory paused his humming to say,
“And if the lady makes a misstep, you apologize.”
“Really?” Geist asked as she
returned her attention to him.
“Of course. As the gentleman, and
the lead, you take responsibility for all mistakes. Always.”
Shaken by Victory’s words, and the
scars on his body—all due to her mistakes—Geist
continued to keep his gaze. It took her a moment, even while they danced, to
whisper, “I’m sorry, Victory.”
She didn’t say anything else, but
the look Victory offered in reply told her everything. He knew what she meant.
Instead of saying something cutting
or hurtful, he gave her smile. “A gracious lady will always accept the apology.
Everyone makes mistakes.”
About the author:
Shami Stovall grew up in California’s central valley with a single mother and little brother. Despite no one in her family earning a degree higher than a GED, she put herself through college (earning a BA in History), and then continued on to law school where she obtained her Juris Doctorate.
As a child, Stovall’s favorite novel was Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell. The adventure on a deserted island opened her mind to ideas and realities she had never given thought before—and it was at that moment Stovall realized story telling (specifically fiction) became her passion. Anything that told a story, be it a movie, book, video game or comic, she had to experience. Now, as a professor and author, Stovall wants to add her voice to the myriad of stories in the world and she hopes you enjoy.
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thanks for hosting
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