Welcome to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and bad ass zombie hunter Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Mystery by H.R. Boldwood Series Tour with Guest Post and giveaway
Welcome to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and bad ass zombie hunter.
The Corpse Whisperer
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 1
by H.R. Boldwood
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Mystery
Zombie hunting just got wicked fun!
Welcome
to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and bad ass zombie
hunter.
“If you raise deadheads, you’d better be able
to put ‘em down. Nobody said it was pretty. But in this day, when
vampires aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and the dead are
disposable pawns for necromancers, someone has to ante up. Looks like
I won the lotto. Imagine my delight. You should thank me, really,
because the world is batshit crazy.”
When the zombie
population spikes and no one knows why, it’s up to Allie to solve
the mystery. But there’s a hitch. She’s stuck babysitting Leo
Abruzzi, a zombie-bitten gangster who’s turning state’s evidence.
But the mob and a powerful necromancer will stop at nothing to take
Leo and Allie down.
Allie Nighthawk is Anita Blake on
steroids, with a fondness for leather and Jack on the rocks. She has
a healthy dose of Stephanie Plum and Rachel Morgan in her, too,
though she’d never admit it. The battle between good and evil just
got wicked fun.
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Corpse Whisperer Sworn
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 2
Zombies, Voodoo, and Hoodoo-what would you do?
Follow Allie Nighthawk to exciting New Orleans where she raises the dead, puts down rotters, and dabbles in the mystical world of hoodoo. She’s on the trail of an evil necromancer who will stop at nothing to rule the world with his army of deadheads. Is her magick strong enough to save the day? Or will this necromancer from her past kill her before she gets the chance? She figures she’s got a fifty-fifty shot. Make that forty-sixty.
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Life Among the Tombstones
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Prequel
Freelance zombie hunter seeking full-time employment-benefits required.
In this prequel to The Corpse Whisperer series, financially challenged zombie hunter, Allie Nighthawk, returns to her hometown of Cincinnati and finds herself knee-deep in murder, mayhem, and zombies. Can she solve not one but two murders, and get away unscathed — when the good guys might not be so good, and a presence from her past returns for revenge?
**Get it FREE!**
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Corpse Whisperer Torn
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 3
Zombie hunting 101: Never tell your neighbors what you do for a living.
“Just
after sunrise, I jumped on my Harley and hurtled toward Templeman’s
Funeral Home, packing Hawk, my custom 9mm, a backup Glock, and a
seven-inch Ka-Bar knife—the standard-issue zombie-hunter’s tool
kit. Not that I’m standard-issue, by any stretch. I was born with
the ability to raise the dead. It’s a genetic thing. Don’t ask me
how it works. I didn’t write the playbook. I’m just living the
dream."
Allie Nighthawk faces a ghost from her past
as she explores the fascinating and historic world of Cincinnati’s
underground. When the Z-virus threatens world-wide contamination,
it’s up to Allie to save the day. Is her magick strong enough to
turn the tide? Or will doubt and inner demons stand in her way? And
will those she loves survive?
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Excerpt from The Corpse
Whisperer:
The cemetery would be a
freaking obstacle course, but Rico insisted we wait until sundown to raise our
rotter. As we climbed over the retaining wall, he explained that mommies don’t
want their children watching me chase decomped deadheads down Central Parkway
with a flamethrower.
I get that. I got no
problem being discreet. It’s not like I want to do this work in the daylight
anyway. You spike one zombie’s head, the ACLU and the paparazzi are all over
you like stink on a flesh-eater. Besides, biters tend to hole up during the day,
since they can’t see in sunlight. Wrangling them is easier in the dark, when
they’re on the prowl.
Fallen tombstones, mole
holes, and titanium flower vases all vying to take out my knees are the
problem. That’s why the art of negotiation comes in handy.
“Hire me,” I said as we
sprinted though the headstones. “I’m tired of this independent contractor shit.
I want double-time for field work, full medical coverage, and disability
benefits. Call it hazardous duty pay.”
Rico stopped and swung his
flashlight in my direction. “Captain Dorsey said you’ve already discussed that
with him. You’re not in the budget.”
“Really, De Palma? It’s not
smart to screw with the one person who can keep your ass from getting
corpsified.”
“That’s Cap’s call, not
mine,” Rico said, taking off with long, powerful strides toward the gravesite.
The backhoe had done the
hard work. I stared at McCoy’s low-rent casket shining in the moonlight and
gave Rico one last chance to bail.
“You know, this isn’t as
easy as I make it look. Raising a rotter is a lot like doing a rain dance. You
might get a drizzle or you might need a freaking ark. McCoy’s a freshy. He
hasn’t even been dead a week. Raising him will screw with the cognitive function
of his brain—the part that processes information. He won’t be capable of lying,
that requires deliberation and intent. But whatever else happens is anybody’s
guess. You sure you want to do this?”
“She’s six years old,
Nighthawk. We don’t have a choice.”
“Open the lid.” I closed my
eyes and let the power surge through me like God’s own hand.
Make no mistake, the
ability to raise the dead is a God-given gift that comes with a moral
obligation to protect the living and
the dead. The gift itself isn’t evil, but misuse of that gift is as ugly as it
gets.
The mortician had done an
impressive job, given the circumstances. McCoy looked like he was napping, like
his eyes could open at any moment, and he’d be confused by his surroundings.
Sometimes appearances aren’t deceiving.
“Cephas Allen McCoy, in the
name of God, I command you to rise!”
Cephas moaned low and
steady.
I spread my hands over him
and whispered a single word. “Awaken.”
Tiny rivers of light
streamed from my hands into his body, causing him to pitch and thrash. Teeth
clenched, limbs flailing, he sprang upright and opened his eyes—crazed,
animal-like eyes that showed fear but nothing else.
He grabbed the edge of the
casket and leapt to the ground above. Shit. That’s what I’d been afraid of. His
muscles still had memory. The .32 he took to the heart didn’t cause peripheral
tissue damage. Climbing out of that grave, for him, was no more difficult than
climbing out of bed to take a leak.
We stood, face to
face—almost. He looked about six-two, giving him a good eight inches on me.
“Cephas, stop!”
He froze and stared at me, like he was trying
to figure out who I was, trying to use the cognitive part of his brain that no
longer worked. Then he twitched.
God. I hate when they twitch.
“Cephas, where’s Twila
Harris?”
He growled and drooled on
my feet.
“Answer me, damn it!” I
pulled the bag of barbecue chips out of my pocket, opened it, and waved it
under his nose. “Tell me where she is and they’re yours.”
Rico’s eyes went wide. “Potato chips? You’ve got to be—”
“Hey. You mind? I’m working here.”
Cephas grabbed at the chips
and slurred, “Duck blind on Lake Chetak. Shush…it’s a secret.”
Now for the tough question.
“Is Twila still alive?”
“Yes. Yes. Pretty. Go play
with her. Need to play. Need her.” His mouth quivered, and a long string of
saliva that dangled from his lip bounced like a bungee cord. Then he snarled,
snatched the chips out of my hand, and bolted across the cemetery.
“Ah, shit!” I took off
after him, the freaking twitcher.
Excerpt from Corpse
Whisperer Sworn:
I pointed at the ladies, reminding them to maintain their position,
then stepped back into the parlor, approached the casket, and lifted the lid.
Poor kid. It looked like he’d had a hard, if short, life. No hint remained of
the life force that rightfully belonged to an eighteen-year-old. Lines etched
his face, a face far too gaunt and haggard to belong to a teen. Damn drugs. And
damn the dealers for turning addicts into shambling zombies long before they
ever die.
I bowed my head and sucked in a breath, centering my mind and heart.
Warmth flooded each of my fingertips, one at a time, and then coursed through
my hands into my arms. The warmth quickly escalated to an agonizing burn, like
it always does when I raise the dead.
I’d placed my hands above the corpse and had begun to do my thing
when a shriek from Lucia stopped me cold. “Madre
di Dio! Stop. Is not my Rocco.”
Nonnie and Lucia, who had crept up alongside me, cringed and quickly
reeled away from the casket. They crossed themselves feverishly and began
chanting something from the old country—something with a lot of consonants and
phlegm.
I shot Lucia the stink-eye. “What do you mean, that isn’t Rocco?”
“Is not my boy.” She craned her neck forward, peering over the edge
of the casket. “Is old man. Older than me.”
“You’re sure?” I asked. “Rocco lived a rough life, what with the
drugs—”
Nonnie pulled her glasses down her nose and peered at me over the
top of the rims. “Try these,” she said, taking them off and shoving them at me.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Stop that,” I said, batting them away.
The codger in the coffin twitched, causing the ladies to scamper
further back and shoot him the Italian horned hand, in unison.
Son-of-a-bitch. I knew I shouldn’t have taken this gig.
The corpse, suspended
somewhere in the galvanized gray space between reanimation and death, resembled
a modern-day Frankenstein. The good news was that Lucia had distracted me
before I’d raised him completely. If I’d have brought him all the way back, I’d
have had to put him down by extreme means. As it stood, I still had a chance to
make this go away quietly.
“Sorry, guy,” I said, bending over him. “Wrong number. Go back to
sleep.”
The corpse twitched again, opened his eyes, and shot me an accusing
stare.
Like this was my fault, right?
“What the hell are you looking at? Haven’t you ever made a mistake? Go to
sleep, you crusty buzzard.”
Excerpt from Corpse Whisperer Torn:
I pulled my 9mm,
stepped back inside, then closed the door and locked it behind me. A small,
blender-like appliance sailed out of the prep room and smashed against the
hallway wall, bursting into pieces. I mentally reassembled the pile of rubble
into an embalming machine.
“Mr. Messmer?” I
called, from the doorway. “You’re behaving badly, sir. C’mon out, huh? Be a
good biter. I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee.”
Growls and grunts
burst out of the room, followed by a deafening crash.
“You’re going to
make me come in there, aren’t you, Mr. Messmer?”
I slid into the
room, holding Hawk at high ready and quickly sliced the pie. A tall metal
shelving unit lay on its side along the back wall. Open cardboard cartons,
resting upside-down on the floor, had spilled dozens of plastic bottles across
the tile. Some of their lids had popped open and fluid was seeping across the
floor. Several file cabinets had been overturned, as well as the two occupied
gurneys. My bogey, crouched behind the toppled shelving unit, hadn’t noticed me
yet. He was too busy munching the bicep of one of the cadavers.
Toppled gurneys
meant that we were already in the cross-contamination zone. No matter how
quickly I wrapped this up, the funeral home was going to need biohazard
remediation services.
Templeman was
going to have a meltdown.
The shelf’s
support brackets crisscrossed in front of Messmer’s head, obscuring my line of
sight. I shifted my feet and accidently kicked one of the plastic bottles. It
skittered across the tile floor, bowling into other bottles along the way.
Messmer snapped
his head up and snarled at me.
I centered Hawk on
his forehead with my left hand, then used my right hand to pull out the
Doritos. After ripping open the bag with my teeth, I held it out to him. “Look
what I’ve got!” With a gentle squeeze to the bottom of the bag, I nudged a chip
out onto the floor. “That’s for you, dude. Go on, take it. You know you want
it.”
Messmer scrambled
to his feet, sniffed the air, and did the one thing I hoped he wouldn’t do. He
twitched.
Why do I always
get the twitchers?
The rotter grabbed
hold of a toppled cabinet, pivoted toward me, and brought it high above his
head. I stepped back to brace myself, but my foot landed on one of the plastic
bottles and I fell just as I squeezed the trigger. My first bullet went high.
My next bullet went wide. The third hit him right between the eyes. Target
acquired.
It hadn’t been
pretty. And it certainly hadn’t been clean, considering the ceiling slathered
in zombie blood and brain sushi (known as zushi, in my trade). But, at
least, the job was over, right? I’d almost made it to my feet when a brilliant
flash blinded me, and the entire world went black.
The next thing I
knew, I opened my eyes and found myself back out in the hallway, smashed up
against the wall. I leaned forward with a moan and pulled my head from its
skull-shaped crater in the drywall.
What the hell?
I pulled myself up
along the sheetrock and surveyed what was left of Templeman’s Funeral Home. The
back half of the prep room, and whatever had been behind it, was completely
gone. Police and fire trucks were arriving at the scene. I wobbled through the carnage
toward daylight, replaying the events as best I could, and made my way to the
gaping hole in the building. Climbing over the crumbled brick and out onto
lawn, I came face-to-face with Mr. Templeman.
The old buzzard
was pointing at my gun and stomping his feet, but the gist of what he said was
overridden by the ringing in my ears.
“Don’t worry. I’m
fine,” I yelled, gently
shaking drywall dust from my hair. Slowly, the haze in my brain began to lift.
The noise-induced hearing loss faded and the sequence of events took shape in
my aching head. I’d fired three shots. The first had hit the ceiling. The
second had gone wide, to the right of Messmer. The third had hit his forehead.
The shot that went wide wouldn’t have stopped until it hit the wall. For all I
knew, it could have even gone through the wall and into the next room. If
memory served, that had been a storage room.
I glanced at the
pile of rubble and winced. “Mr. Templeman, were there chemicals in your storage
room?”
“It’s a freaking
funeral home! I had thirty cases of formaldehyde in there.”
Oh, shit. Shit,
shit, shit…
“Is
that…flammable?”
His eyes blazed as he swept his arm toward the pile of pulverized
building materials behind us. “What do you think, Einstein?
Excerpt from Life Among the Tombstones:
I opened the car
door and got a noseful of Eau de Deadhead.
“We’re in the
right place,” I said, letting my eyes wash over the ten-story tall Crosley
Building, a behemoth of crumbling brick and broken windows.
Harry slipped his
radio into his pocket, then opened the glove compartment and pulled out his
backup piece. He clipped it to his belt and took the lead as we jogged through
the dark.
“Seriously?” I
snickered, drawing Hawk. “Your back up piece is a .38, too?”
He puffed like a
freight train. “Big surprise. I told you, I’m a dinosaur.”
Something rustled
to my right. I spun, holding Hawk at high ready. A piece of newspaper tumbled
through the air and plastered itself against an ancient metal dumpster
stationed along the Arlington Street side of the building.
I exhaled slowly
and lowered my gun.
Little Allie
harrumphed and called me a wussy.
“Bite me, bitch.”
Harry glanced over
his shoulder. “You say something?”
“No. Keep moving.”
That haranguing
head hag would be the end of me yet.
From our left came
the unmistakable sound of a footstep, as it crunched against the broken glass,
bricks and concrete that littered the ground. Harry and I whirled, weapons
drawn, but the art deco-styled building threw random shadows in the waning glow
of the moon. Even with the help of a flashlight, scanning those inky
silhouettes proved difficult—like distinguishing one shade of black against
another.
One of the shadows
rippled. Or had it? I shut my eyes and let my other senses go to work. The
stink of death grew stronger. The air beside me displaced, and brushed
silk-like against my skin. I shivered and tightened my grip on Hawk. “Harry?”
No answer.
“Harry.”
“I can’t see for
shit,” he muttered.
A biter popped
into Harry’s flashlight beam, maybe six feet ahead. In one fluid motion, he
brought his .38 to bear, squeezed off a round, and nailed it between its eyes.
He drew in a long, loud breath and announced, “Deadhead
down.”
“Don’t get cocky.
Take a whiff,” I said, breathing in the stench. “He’s not the only game in
town.”
The sound of
movement ahead in an archway spurred us forward. We reached the alcove and
nearly tripped over splintered pieces of plywood strewn on the ground, directly
across from an entrance to the building. Where once had been a boarded-up door,
now stood a gaping black maw. A woman’s scream came from inside.
Harry barked at
his radio. “1 David 26, requesting backup. 1329 Arlington Street. Possible
assault.”
“Roger, 1 David
26. Backup en route.”
“We don’t have
time to wait for backup,” I whispered. “One bite and she’s finished.”
Harry snorted.
“Who said anything about waiting? Get the hell behind me and see how dinosaurs
do things.”
Our flashlight
beams created thin pinholes of light in the black abyss. We stared into the
void and funneled inside, eyes and ears peeled, creeping forward at the speed
of slugs. Harry shined his light to the right, and I shined mine to the left,
but our field of vision was nearly nonexistent. The echo of our footsteps told
us the room was huge. The second scream rang out, followed by distant banging
and clanging noises.
After clearing our
point of entry, Harry and I headed in the direction of the scream and ended up
at a large, heavy-gauge metal door. He yanked on the handle and pulled. The
door groaned, but opened wide. Unseen feet shuffled across the concrete floor
into the darkness. A distant chorus of moans and groans halted as we stepped
through the doorway.
Little Allie, who
hadn’t been fond of this call to begin with, launched a full-scale assault in
my head. She hadn’t needed to. I was way ahead of her.
“Harry—"
“Yeah. I know.
This is all kinds of FUBAR.”
The huge metal
door behind us slammed shut. That door weighed hundreds of pounds. It hadn’t
closed itself.
Harry brought the
radio to his mouth. “1 David 26, 1329 Arlington Street. Where the hell is that
backup? Possible zombie horde. Repeat. Possible zombie horde.”
“Roger, 1 David
26,” the dispatcher responded. “How…how many zombies in a horde?”
Harry looked at me
and rolled his eyes.
“How the hell
should I know?” I yelled into Harry’s phone, “Just send some damn backup. Like a shit ton.”
Harry harrumphed
and slid the radio back into his pocket. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did she
really ask how many biters in a—”
He raised his .38
and fired. A bullet screamed past my head. I grabbed my aching ears and spun to
find a biter flat on its back, not three feet behind me. Most of its head was
missing.
1) What
was the most fun about writing the Corpse Whisperer series?
I got the biggest kick
out of getting to know Allie Nighthawk, a kickass zombie hunter, and letting
her tell her story in her own words. Sometimes, I’d catch myself laughing out
loud at the ridiculous jams she’d get herself in and out of. But don’t tell her
that. She’d beat the snot out of me.
2)
What surprised you the most when writing the
series?
I was pleasantly
surprised that I stumbled upon a lovable, wonderfully flawed heroine with whom
readers connect. Once Allie’s character was established, it was simply a matter
of getting out of her way and letting her run with the story. Me? I’m just the
scribe who put it down on paper.
3)
How
is Allie Nighthawk like you?
Allie and I both have a
deep sense of morality and fairness. We also have the same voice living in the
back of our brains - the one that screams like a banshee when we’re about to do
the wrong thing. We call that voice the brain bitch. I don’t care if that
head-hag is right most of the time; she needs to use her indoor voice. The
crazy bitch must think we’re deaf. Allie and I also tend to ‘step in it’
occasionally when we insist on doing the right thing. But that’s where the
similarities between us end.
4)
If you could be more like Allie, which of her traits
would you want?
I
always say that Allie is who I want to be when I grow up. She is driven,
fearless, and completely lacking in the filter department. She was also born
with some nifty paranormal talents, like raising the dead. How fun would that
be?
5)
Tell us about the
other characters in the Corpse Whisperer series.
The
characters are my favorite part of the series! It’s a diverse cast. Each
character has a distinct voice and personality. A few of them are Rico, her
partner; Nonnie Nussbaum, her nosy next-door neighbor; Leo, an irrepressible
mobster; Harry, the aging detective who has more to offer than Allie foresees;
and Cap, Allie’s exasperated boss. Of course, no series is complete without its
villain. His name is Toussaint LeClerc, and he is an evil necromancer.
6)
Do you have any pets? Were they the inspiration for
Headbutt the bulldog and Kulu the African Gray parrot that appear in the Corpse
Whisperer series?
I
have a black lab – shepherd mix named Poe. He is six years old, jet black,
sweet as can be, and eats his weight in food daily. He loves to sleep and is
kinetically challenged like Headbutt from the Corpse Whisperer series,
but as far as I know, Poe has no exceptional talent for sniffing out rotters.
When I was younger, I had a fabulous parakeet named P.J. who followed me around
the house, but she was far too sweet to have inspired Kulu. Kulu is a
foul-mouthed feather duster. She’d have likely eaten P.J.
7)
How did you come up with all the fantastic zombie lore and
cop info?
I
belong to an incredibly bright international online writing group that pushed
me into building a rich zombie world. A properly constructed world gives
readers context; rules for that world provide it with logic. Creating a
backstory for the zombie virus, inventing diseases and treatments, and
providing multiple strains of biters add depth to that world. I did a lot of
research on the brain regarding which parts control various bodily functions. I
devised Latin-based medical terminology and developed an entirely fictitious
branch of pseudo-science. The police and law enforcement procedures, as well as
the weapons-based lingo and protocols, were approved by my late brother, a
retired lieutenant detective, and his son, a police officer as well.
8)
Is there anything you’re surprised no one’s asked
about the series or characters?
Yes,
now that you mention it. This question popped up in a Facebook discussion post
not long ago, and it got me thinking: Do zombies poop? No one has ever asked me
that. Thank heaven. Still, it is an interesting question. Maybe…
9) What
can we expect from you in the future?
I’m sure there will be
more Allie Nighthawk mysteries to come! I’m also considering a spinoff and
completely unrelated noir female detective series.
10)
Who published the Corpse Whisperer
series, and who did the cover art?
Third Street Press
publishes the series. Kristin Bryant is the cover artist.
11)
How did you develop the concept and
characters for your series?
I
wrote a short story featuring Allie Nighthawk and realized she is a fabulous,
complex main character worthy of many paranormal mystery novels.
12)
Did you learn anything while writing
your series?
I
learned something new every single day! From how to hotwire a backhoe to
firearms and police procedures to coroner’s procedures to the ins and outs of
Cincinnati’s Flying Pig Marathon and the city’s underground subway and cavern
system to Voodoo and Hoodoo and the city of New Orleans!
13)
If your book was made into a film,
who would you want to play the lead?
I’ve
always pictured Allie Nighthawk played by a young Sandra Bullock or Mia Kunis.
14)
What is your favorite part of the
series?
As the author, I’m proud
that the characters have both depth and humor. These stories contain
some profound and tender moments in addition to non-stop action and a barrel of
laughs.
15) If you could spend time with one of your
characters, who would it be, and what would you do?
I’d love to scream down
the street with Allie on her lowrider and shoot a few rounds at Brasshole’s
Firing Range.
16) Do your
characters hijack the series, or do you have the reigns?
I know where the
characters will end up, but how they get there is totally up to them!
17) What did you edit out of the last book of
the series?
Content-wise, I didn’t
edit anything out, but I did add a few scenes that placed more obstacles in
Allie’s way.
18) If your
series had a candle, what scent would it be?
My choice of scent would
be patchouli because it’s evocative of Hoodoo.
19) Do you
have any side stories about the characters?
I have no side stories
featuring these characters, but I have considered writing a collection of
holiday-based biter stories featuring this same crew. Yay or nay?
20)
Are your characters based on real people, or
did they come entirely
from your
imagination?
The characters are from my imagination, but some of
their characteristics and mannerisms are from simple observation.
H.R. Boldwood, author of the Corpse Whisperer series, countless short stories, and Imadjinn Award finalist, is a writer of horror and speculative fiction. In another incarnation, Boldwood is a Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the 2009 Bilbo Award for creative writing by Thomas More College. Boldwood’s characters are often disreputable and not to be trusted. They are kicked to the curb at every conceivable opportunity when some poor unsuspecting publisher welcomes them with open arms. No responsibility is taken by this author for the dastardly and sometimes criminal acts committed by this ragtag group of miscreants.
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