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The Eighth Witch, by maynardsims
London, GB

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The Eighth Witch

"This book would make a good movie."
http://fallenangelreviews.com/2012/August/cheryl-theeighthwitch.htm

"a grand adventure, written in a very fast paced, exciting style that
brings several characters together in a truly terrifying novel"
http://www.nightowlreviews.com/nor/Reviews/Hitherandthee-reviews-
The-Eighth-Witch-by-Maynard-Sims.aspx

"The third Department 18 novel (after Black Cathedral and Night Souls),
a consistently entertaining blend of supernatural horror
and British drawing room mystery"
http://www.publishersweekly.com/978-1-61921-076-9

THE EIGHTH WITCH

Chapter One

The young woman held the dress up to her slender body and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe door. Her cold blue eyes narrowed critically and she shook her head, her shock of long, blond curls drifting over her shoulders like a yellow cloud. No, it wasnt right.

The evening dress was purple silk; long enough to touch the floor, with thin shoulder straps and a swooping neckline. It was much too old for her, too sophisticated. She closed her eyes and concentrated. When she opened her eyes again the person that stared back at her from the mirror was older. The blond curls had been replaced by an elegant, dark brown, chin-length bob that shone in the electric light. The haircut framed an older face; haunting chestnut eyes and a thin, aquiline nose above a full-lipped mouth.

That was better.

The body in the reflection was different too. It fitted the dress perfectly. Maybe shed take the dress with her when she left the house, after shed done what shed come here to do. Maybe not. She hadnt come here to steal.

As she pulled open the wardrobe again to replace the dress her eye was drawn to a cashmere sweater folded neatly on the shelf above the hanging space. It was a rich shade of burgundy and would really enhance her new eye colour. As she reached up to slide it from the shelf, her sleeve caught an empty wooden coat hanger and dislodged it, sending it clattering to the floor of the wardrobe. She froze in mid-stretch, listening hard, waiting to see if the noise had attracted the attention of the one other person in the house. There was no sound of feet climbing the stairs; no sounds at all apart from the low rumble of Leonard Cohens velvet-bass vocals issuing from the stereo speakers in the lounge.

It was just as well because she wasnt ready yet. She still had another wardrobe to search through before the act, as she liked to call it. She thought briefly about what she was going to do and flicked a hungry tongue across her full lips.

There was a small, delicious knot of anticipation in the pit of her stomach that never changed, never varied, no matter how many times she performed the act, and in whatever form it took. The sense of anticipation and the accompanying excitement remained constant& and she loved it.

Sophie Gillespie lifted her head and stared at the ceiling. She was sure shed heard something; a rattling sound of wood falling against wood, as if someone had dropped an armful of kindling on a parquet floor. She listened hard, her hand reaching for the remote and reducing Leonard Cohen to a low grumble.

Not for the first time she had the feeling she wasnt alone in the house, but there was never any evidence to show she was right. She thought maybe she should go upstairs and investigate, but the truth was the house frightened her, always had. From the moment she and Mark moved in two years ago shed been beset by misgivings. Not that she ever voiced them to her husband. Much to her dismay, hed set his heart on the place from the first moment hed seen it.

In her opinion the house was much too old, too big, too dilapidated, and too spooky. Too everything. Hed brought in a team of builders and decorators to completely gut and renovate the place, and while it was now a smart and elegant home Sophie held onto her reservations. It was still too old and too bloody spooky.

Location, location, location. It was her fathers favourite phrase when he got onto the topic of houses and, more importantly, buying them. For him, where it was located was much more important than what the house actually was.

Houses can be fixed, Sophie. They can be redesigned, renovated, extended. Damn it, if you dont like it that much you can always pull the bloody thing down and build it again. But where it is, where it sits& thats the crux, the nub, the heart of the matter. Thats something you cant change.

She could still hear his voice in her mind. Her father had approved of the location of this house almost as much as hed approved of Mark and their marriage.

Hes got a good head on his shoulders that one. Hell be a millionaire by the time hes forty. His enthusiasm for Mark was palpable. Snap him up, Sophie, before somebody else does.

So far her father had been proved right. Mark still had four years to go before he reached forty, but he was already over halfway towards his first million and Sophie was sure that her husband would justify her fathers high opinion of him. As for the house, in many ways, her father was right again.

Set deep down in Yorkshires Calder Valley in the North of England, surrounded by lush, tree-clad hills it was the grandest house in the town of Ravensbridge. The walls were Yorkshire stone the colour of clotted cream, and the tiled roof was a rich slate gray. It was a picture postcard type of house; the type that, as a teenager and through into her early twenties, she would stare at for hours in the pages of glossy magazines and dream of owning. It was a bitter pill to swallow knowing that her dreams and aspirations bore little resemblance to the reality of actually living in one.

She pressed another button on the remote and switched discs. Maybe it was Leonard Cohen that was making her feel so gloomy. Cohens bass tones were replaced by the mellow soul crooning of Marvin Gaye. Better, she thought. She leaned back on the sumptuous leather cushions of the couch and closed her eyes, letting the music transport her back to happier times.

The idyll lasted no longer than thirty seconds before the splintering sound of crashing glass made her jerk her head and stare hard at the ceiling.

The blond curls were back. They were much more suited to the Armani suit she was holding against her. Taupe. That was the colour. It was elegantly cut and she could imagine slipping into the expensive fabric and letting it hug her body. That would feel good.

With a sigh she put the suit back on the rail and went across to the bed.

It was nearly time.

There was a water carafe on the cabinet next to the bed. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, letting it slip through her fingers and smash on the antique oak floor.

Whoops! she said quietly, and then sat down on the edge of the bed to wait.

Description: This is about our current novel from Samhain in USA - The Eighth Witch. http://store.samhainpublishing.com/eighth-witch-p-7027.html This novel is the third in the Department 18 series - www.dept18.com Details are at www.maynard-sims.com Four hundred years ago six of the seven Yardley sistersall witcheswere systematically hunted down and killed. The seventh lived long enough to give birth to a daughter. Now, centuries later, that daughter has resurfaced in the town of Ravensbridge, more powerful than her mother or aunts ever were. She has honed her powers, can change shape at will, and has only one ambition to bring her family back from the dead to seek vengeance against the descendants of all who slaughtered them. Ravensbridge once lived in fear of the seven Yardley sisters, but they have yet to experience the terror of&the Eighth Witch. Watch The Eighth Witch book trailer http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h94e1_NEhNg&feature=youtu.be

Photo Posted: Jan 06,2013 Photo Viewed: 650

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