I’ve started writing a new series. I’m already writing two, so adding one more seems like a foolish endeavour. But what can I say? It needed to be written.
The series is called House of Magic. It’s a combination of mystery and magical, with supernatural entities added to the mix. The protagonist is Phoebe Thorpe, a perfectly ordinary assistant to an antiques dealer. Only, it turns out the antiques dealer is anything but ordinary.
The series is set in London, but it’s not the Two-Natured London of my paranormal romance series. Supernatural is hidden from humans, and most people don’t even know magic exists. It’s not a romance series either. It’s more like my P.I. Tracy Hayes series, where mystery is at the forefront, with all sorts of shenanigans on the side. This one is lighter on the murders though.
The first book is called Hexing the Ex, and it comes out in June 6th. Here’s the description:
I didn’t expect to be evicted the first thing I returned from my holiday, but thanks to my roommate Nick, that’s what I was facing.
It’s not exactly easy to find a new place to live in London, so when Phoebe Thorpe spots a room-to-let sign at the window of a magic shop, she doesn’t hesitate. The room is perfect, even if chores are part of the rent. There is only one thing odd about her new landladies. They seem to believe magic exists.
Phoebe doesn’t believe in magic, but unfortunately magic believes in her. A mysterious statuette is sent to her boss, Archibald Kane, and she accidentally triggers a curse meant for him. Naturally, the first person she curses is her ex-boyfriend. But why would anyone want to curse her boss, a perfectly ordinary antiques dealer? Or is he?
Phoebe sets out to break the curse with the help of her new housemates. But it isn’t easy trying to solve a mystery she doesn’t even believe is real. Then again, that hellhound chasing her seemed pretty solid… Maybe there’s more to magic than hexing one’s ex.
|Hexing the Ex by Susanna Shore|
And here’s a sample of the first chapter:
I’m not one for premonitions. I don’t interpret every shiver in my spine as a portent, and I don’t believe my Aunt Clara’s bones when she declares that they predict doom. She just picks a random news item and announces that her bones knew it was going to happen.
But when my sandals sank into a soaked carpet as I stepped onto the small landing outside my flat, I knew everything was not well inside.
My second clue was the flood of water that flushed over my ankles when I opened the door.
I abandoned the luggage I’d laboriously dragged up the steep stairs to the third floor, and crossed the small foyer in a couple of soggy leaps to the bathroom where I could hear the water running. I yanked the door open and got my feet washed a second time.
The sight inside turned my bones liquid, but I stiffened my spine and waded through the water to the running shower and the prone figure lying under it—on the drain.
I kneeled by him and was instantly drenched by the shower. “Bloody hell!”
Sputtering, I reached blindly for the faucet and turned it off before focusing on my flatmate again. I lifted his head that was mercifully wedged in the corner so that it was above the water, and patted his cheeks. He was breathing, but completely out of it.
My temper flared now that I knew he was alive. “You bloody dope-head! What have I told you about showering when coming down from your high?”
He’d passed out in the shower before, but he’d never caused such a flood. Mostly because I’d been home and had been able to prevent disaster. But I’d been away on a holiday for two weeks, foolishly thinking that I could trust him not to wreck the place while I was gone.
I tried to take a hold under his arms, but his slack body was surprisingly heavy, and his wet skin was slippery. Getting up, I wrapped my hands around his wrists and pulled, which worked better. The drain finally open, the water began to surge down with a deep gurgle.
Sliding and gliding on the wet bathroom tiles, I dragged Nick to the hallway. The wall-to-wall carpet was soaked, but he was wet anyway, so I just dropped him there. His spread-eagled lanky form revealed details of his anatomy I really didn’t want to see but—sadly—had witnessed before.
Then I fetched my luggage from the landing, carried it to my room that was miraculously dry, and stripped to my underwear. I’d soon be sweaty cleaning the mess Nick had made, so there was no point wearing clothes. Then I headed to the bathroom and got to work.
Happy homecoming, Phoebe. Happy fricking homecoming.