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And once I had finished that painful writing process, the manuscripts were missing that special x-factor that makes them shine. I loved every minute of it and I think that shows in my words.

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These will be published by Crooked Cat Books in Heidi Catherine can be found on Facebook, Twitter or on her website. Her debut novel, The Soulweaver, is available for order now. She also has a free prequel novelette called The Moonchild, which introduces you to two of the main characters from The Soulweaver in the lifetime they lived before the book takes place.

Fantastic — thanks so much Heidi and best of luck with your books. The Soulweaver order link — myBook. You are commenting using your WordPress.

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    It never got easier. Each time his stomach roiled as bad as the last, maybe worse. He shivered with loathing and tightened his grip. No one ever knows. I liked the look of that blonde. Be ready next time. Waiting for me. There, on his left. Miniscule thing it was. Disgusted, he plunged deeper, opened his fingers wider, and sifted through organs and tissue until his fist closed over his prey.

    His feeble swipes through the air might as well have swatted flies. The words should have burned his forked tongue as he spoke them. Without a thought about who his victims left behind as he silenced their voices. He would not snap. This death would not be the one to break him, though if it did, he could hardly be blamed. Teach a man to kill, and he lusted for blood.


    Soul Weaver - Spheres of Power Wiki

    Show him how scales are balanced, and he will discover how they can be tipped. He chuckled darkly as hatred unfurled in his chest. Pity had no place here. His parted lips dry. His skin prickled as he became corporeal. Once he shook off the sting, he reached for the short velvet pouch hanging from his belt. He freed it, forced the mouth open, and shoved the hand holding the blackened soul down the gullet of the bag.

    Familiar suction nursed his fingers as a vortex swirled around his hand and a portal swallowed his arm up to his elbow. He smelled flesh cooking and knew it was his. Any spirit not tethered by a body would. He cinched the ties, closed the bag, and reaffixed the pouch to his belt.

    His shears still vibrated from the power that had radiated from his spiritual form. Holding their jaws open, he sliced through the air and opened a rift. He was intent on returning to his home, but his blood hummed from the kill and his mind itched for distraction. He took a step, and that same pale sliver of sunlight glinted off the toes of his boot. His head was heavy, and lifting it was difficult. Through the crack in the curtains, the mortal world beckoned. He craved fresh air to clear his lungs, needed the feel of sunlight warm against his skin.

    He longed to walk among the living and leave the taint of death behind him for a while. After exiting the motel, Nathaniel ambled through the parking lot and onto the crumbling sidewalk. Cold wind slashed his cheeks, numbed his face. Slush froze in the cracks and pried the concrete apart. A rumbling growl overhead diverted his thoughts from the urban decay of the block where his latest mark had resided.

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    Above him, a roiling blanket of clouds stretched across the horizon. His steps slowed, giving him time to regain his balance. He touched his hip, feeling the reassuring presence of his shears and soul bag. Rubbing his palm across his pants, he knew there was no blood to wipe from his fingers. The stain ran deeper, having seeped into his soul and corroded it.

    A truck sped past, spraying his pants with icy slush from the roadway.

    Nathaniel paused for a heartbeat before shaking the sludge off. His soaked pants slicked to his leg, and his boots sloshed on his next step. He watched with morbid fascination as momentum carried the truck through the intersection and into oncoming traffic. His shoulders tensing in anticipation, he cringed as the truck plowed into the side of a sleek van with a sickening crunch of steel on steel. Metallic screams filled his ears as both vehicles exploded through the guardrail and vanished from sight. He swallowed hard. Help would come. Someone must have heard the cry of metal grinding over pavement.

    His fingers twitched with the urge to slice a rift.

    The Soul Weaver by Carol Berg

    He should take his shears and leave. The harvest was messing with his head, making him feel kinship with these mortals whose lives had spun from their control. This was insanity. He took a step and glanced around to prove he was alone. He was. He took another step, and another, until the pounding of his feet became a full-out run. He slid to a halt at the gap where twisted railing curled as if pointing a sharp finger down the slope and into a ravine.