#Giveaway with Sorchia DuBois, Author of Zoraida Grey and the Voodoo Queen

A moist wave of air drifts from the open bathroom window carrying the scent of shampoo and soap. A door creaks, a floorboard pops with the weight of a Scotsman. I fancy I hear his breath from the upstairs hallway, a quiet snap of wood as he comes down the stairs. Al marches down those steps with an even, measured tread. Zhu bounces and bubbles from step to step like water falling over a rocky cliff, but Shea makes no more noise than Johnny Lee on the prowl.

The wooden screen door, swollen with the summer humidity, rasps as he pushes it open. “I never knew such a place existed where you could go naked and still be too warm. It is like walking about in a warm bath all day.”

“So—feel better after your shower? A little less like an asshole, maybe?”

“I said I was sorry.” Shea balances his sandwich, two glasses, and the depleted bottle of Laphroaig in one hand. Even in the near dark, his gaudy Bermuda shorts give off a subtle glow.

“Who picks out your clothes anyway? Or do you find them in dumpsters?”

The whisky he hands me is cold but neat. He sinks into the lawn chair beside me. “I’ll have you know these shorts come highly recommended as standard American togs by no less than Constable MacCaig himself. I have three more just like them.”

Short, round, nearly bald, but with a detective’s discerning gray eyes, the image of Constable MacCaig makes me smile. Nothing in Black Bridge, Scotland, gets past Constable MacCaig—not even the witches in Castle Logan.

“Who knew Constable MacCaig was such a fashionista? At least we won’t have trouble finding you in the snow, come winter.” The faint light of the crescent moon shimmers faintly from indigo tattoos twining up his right arm and down his torso. I give myself another mental shake and concentrate on my whisky. “How did you and Constable MacCaig get so chummy?”

He does not reply immediately, but takes a drink. The muscles in his jaw knot. “We did not start out as chums.”

“And thereby hangs a tale, I guess.”

“Not a pleasant one. He accused me of spiriting his daughter away.”

After he pulled me out of the oubliette, Shea sent me to Constable and Mrs. MacCaig. A nurse, Mrs. MacCaig bandaged my wounds. Since I fled wearing only my underwear and bathrobe, she gave me clothes for the journey back to Arkansas—her daughter’s clothes. The coat, sweater, and jeans are tumbling in my dryer right now.

“MacCaig wouldn’t accuse you if he didn’t have reason.” My tone is harsher than I intend. I am an expert in the way male Logan witches manipulate, persuade, seduce. “That’s something I would expect from Michael, more than you.”

“Really?” His profile is black against the glow of the streetlights and the sky.

A chill crawls down my back like a spider with eight cold feet. “What happened to her?”

He shakes his head, concentrating on the glass of whisky intently before he drains it. “I’m not certain.”

Johnny Lee Hooker slinks along the porch rail. His tail twitches and his ears cup toward the woods as the moon breaks free of the tree branches. A whippoorwill calls from the fringe of woodland, but this bubble of peace extends only so far. Outside, the world is uncertain and scary. On my very own porch, Shea Logan is proof of that.

How deep into Michael’s plans is Shea—how much has he done and how much more does he plan to do to keep Michael’s trust? Whether he intends to prove his loyalty to Michael or to take Michael’s place as laird of the Logan witches, he’ll need help. He’ll need the Stone of Adamantine.