Praise For Wraith

"Weldon's lively debut...keeps Zoë and her readers off balance with brisk pacing and brain-wrenching plot twists...[She draws] the story to a satisfying close while leaving enough loose ends to set up Zoë's next adventure"/
Publisher's Weekly

Praise For Spectre

"Weldon takes readers on a fast-moving adventure of murder, mystery, the dark side of survival, and a romance that is ready to bloom. Spectre provides fans with action and danger at every turn."
Darque Reviews

Praise For Phantasm

"A solemnity and darkness permeate this terrifying tale, another excellent outing by the truly gifted Weldon."
Romantic Times, 4 Stars

Spectre, Book 2

spectre-small

Excerpt:

Curled brown dried leaves tumbled low along the ground, over brittle, warmth-starved grass in swirling patterns, carried by a cutting January breeze. Spindled bare branches stretched up among the ever-green pines to touch the canopy of gray clouds moving at a slower pace, casting the world in a monochromatic filter.

It was all such a maleficent backdrop to the sounds of sobs, murmured whispers, and periodic coughs barked out by the mourners gathered in a tight knot around a coffin-shaped hole in the ground. Th green funeral-home tent billowed in the wind and the white-trimmed scalloped edges flapped with sharp popping noises. The white clouds anchoring the tent in place strained and fought the increasing breeze as the silver posts creaked in their anchors in the hard ground.

I hate funerals.

Especially this kind of funeral, where the deceased was close and their loss weighed on every one’s shoulders. Everyone cried in unison. Even me—though I was still numb from shock.

The pall bearers approached, a row of dark, uniformed police, their heads bowed, carrying the darker oak casket with its brass handles. Oak was his favorite—that much I’d learned in the short time I’d known him. And he liked old black-and-white movies.

They moved under the tent and set the lieutenant’s casket atop tight, flat green cords that would release later when the box was lowered into the ground. The priest stepped up, Father Maximillian Bishop (Father Bishop—wasn’t that cool? Well—I am a Catholic—though non-practicing. I thought it was cool) stepped forward, his black robes billowing out in the January wind. I knew he had to be cold and wondered only once whether or not he was wearing any underwear under his robes.

Nuns didn’t wear underwear—or so I’d been told. But did priests? Were they nude, flapping in the wind under all those robes?

Gah—where is my mind these days?

“Friends and family, associates—” His voice was strong when he spoke. And clear. Not a single tremor or shake of his lips. If he was cold, he wasn’t letting anyone else in on it. “We’re gathered here today to express our grief at the loss of a strong, well-bodied member of the community. Today we pay our respects to Lieutenant Daniel—”