In Regency England, a schoolteacher witch determined to make up for the sins of her scandalous mother and a reckless nobleman with a death wish must find the hidden weapons of the Roman gods before a shadow druid uses them to plunge the world into eternal darkness. The strange allies are forced into a desperate race against a powerful enemy determined to forge a weapon that could end the world.
Con watched as the woman rose from the floor and disappeared. A final whack at the invisible barrier separating them only resulted in smashing his mahogany cane into splinters. He threw the part that remained in his hand to the floor as the giant soap bubble disappeared.
What the blazes had just happened? One moment he’d been dancing with the most mysterious female to come into his life since—he fought to remember a more mysterious one—since he exited the womb.
The next moment, she’d been attacked by a man dressed as a druid, who had plants growing out of him, who had stolen the wheel from Lenthall’s already stolen chariot.
She’d created some sort of…his mind rebelled at supplying a word, his logic insisting that such a thing couldn’t be possible. But he wasn’t drunk and his eyes worked well.
It had been magic. A spell that had protected Lenthall’s guests from the evil-looking branches the druid had created. It had come from her. He couldn’t deny it. He found he didn’t want to, though he was left with even more questions than he’d had for her before. Now she was gone, taking whatever answers she may have had with her.
Clearly, though, she was not a fairy, as he’d suspected. She was a witch.
Worse, no one seemed to notice any of this, except for the guests near him, who studiously avoided looking his way. But he wasn’t the first man whose odd behavior at a party would be ignored.
Otherwise, all the men continued to try to look down the ladies’ cleavage and surreptitiously made arrangements to go into the stews for a proper drink later; all the debs batted eyelashes at the rich old baronets while trying to hide their admiration for the young men’s legs.
He strode over to the chariot and examined the empty spot where the wheel had been. The statue of Apollo seemed to be about to throw back his curly head in laughter. Perhaps at the way his chariot now listed to one side.
A scream gashed the air, making the band squeak to a halt.
“Charles!” Lady Lenthall called to her husband, raising her delicate wrist to a forehead gone pale.
“By God, the wheel is gone.” Lenthall stared at his prized possession, then he turned to Con.
“The wheel is gone.”
“Of course it is, you idiot. The druid—” Con paused, recognizing a confused set to his friend’s eye. “You didn’t see any of it, did you?”
“What am I to do?” Lenthall wailed. He grabbed a passing servant by his collar. “You. Get me a Bow Street Runner this instant.”
The servant sprinted away, dodging through the stunned crowd.
Lenthall stared up at the pedestal. “A thief must have slipped in and taken it. A priceless object. They’ll never know what they had.”
Con thought of the strength of mind he’d seen in the druid’s eye. And the equal determination in the witch’s. Somehow, he imagined that both of them knew exactly what they’d had.
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About the Author
I wrote my first novel in twelfth grade—a craptastic plot-hole-ridden mystery I did after reading too much Agatha Christie.
I wrote my second novel in creative writing class in university. It was a YA about a bridesmaid. Everyone else in my group tried to write serial killer novels. I was the only one who finished the assignment. I got a 95.
After that, I forgot I was a writer for a while and remembered again later. Writing has taken me some amazing places, including Montréal, Ecuador, and Regency England.
I love hearing from readers. You can email me at firstname.lastname@example.org or visit www.teresawilde.com.