🌟 Book Tour with Guest Post & Giveaway ➱ Hummingbird Moonrise (Murder, Tea & Crystals - A Trilogy Book 3) a Paranormal Mystery by Sherri Dodd

WOW! WOMEN ON WRITING TOUR

Hummingbird Moonrise

By Sherri Dodd

Book Summary

The past two years have taken their toll on Arista Kelly. Once an eternal optimist, now she has faced the darkness and must recalibrate what true happiness means for her. Meanwhile, Shane, her ex-boyfriend, is pulling all the right moves to help keep her sane from her heightening paranoia. But it doesn’t help that Iris, her Great Aunt Bethie’s friend, has disappeared.

Still, one additional trial remains. While searching for Iris, Bethie and Arista stumble upon a grand revelation in the eccentric woman’s home. With the discovery, they realize their run of chaos and loss of kin may have roots in a curse that dates back to the 1940s—the time when their family patriarch first built Arista’s cottage in the redwoods and crafted his insightful Ouija table.

This pursuit will not follow their accustomed recipe of adrenalized action, but the high stakes remain. Will the mysterious slow burn of unfolding events finally level Arista’s entire world or be fully extinguished, once and for all?

Publisher: Black Rose Writing(October 9, 2025)

Audiobook: B0GXPSGKDD

ASIN: B0FB5QV948

ISBN: 1685136583

ISBN-13: 978-1685136581

Print length: 305 pages

Purchase a copy of Hummingbird Moonrise

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Prologue

~ Boulder Creek, California, 1940 ~

The scent of noble fir had already filled their cozy mountain cottage. As Barry secured the small bristly tree into its metal stand, he thought of the coming holiday—Christmas, in two days’ time—and considered their lack of space. His three grown sons could tent up outside, and his daughter and her kids would do well in the spare bedroom, but that left no room for his brothers visiting from Ireland.

“Oigh!” Too much to consider, and it was Noreen’s job to fret about space, anyway.

Further, he appreciated the healthy green needles. The comforting sight of them blended well with the savory aroma of the chicken and barley stew boiling in the kitchen. The warmth lulled him, and he sat down in his chair, only to scoff at his own idleness. With a man’s job to be done, he arose again for chores.

“Feedin’ the dogs. Oi’ll be back,” Barry announced, his long i’s still harboring an Irish accent beneath his more recent Texas twang.

Noreen, his wife, looked up and nodded as she dutifully tended the boiling four-gallon stewpot. She flashed a look at their two grandsons waiting at the dinner table. “Dinner’s ready when Grandpa returns from feeding,” she said with a wink and warm smile.

He ignored the boys’ cheers as he admired the hard-working woman he had met and married what seemed like a lifetime ago after emigrating from Ireland to the southeast Texas countryside. She looked as pretty now as she did then, even with her long, graying blond hair pulled up in a tight bun, her gunnysack dress covering her beautiful body, and that apron splotched with the night’s upcoming dinner. Still pretty.

His oldest grandson caught his eye, staring at him with an amused expression.

“Alroight, then.” He had to get to those dogs. Barry walked out onto the porch of his self-built dwelling and peered down his dirt road of Hoot Owl Way. It was quite a jaunt into town, but the coastal redwoods had become a refuge from the bustle of the city life he had experienced back in Houston, Texas’s largest city, as of the recent turn of the year—1940. Now, after ten years of southerly living, long enough to improve his English, develop a slight drawl, and pick up several southern colloquialisms, he and his family moved west to the California mountains and settled into this new life. It only took the preceding months to build his modest home and get his business of hound trading well established.

He invigorated himself with a whiff of the mountain air and readied to feed the twenty dogs he had bred and trained for hunting. Listening to their exulting howls, he chuckled, knowing his voice served as their dinner bell.

“Come on, Duke. Toime tuh go,” he announced to his favorite hound. Duke was the only dog he had granted freedom to run the property and take comfort on the porch.

Duke lay motionless. But that was usual in those first few seconds while he considered rising from the old, tattered rug. A mound of gray ticked fur with a generous black splotch on his side, Duke had floppy black velvet ears that added to his handsome look, and those relaxed jowls were always good for tugging.

“Here, boy!”

Barry nudged the mongrel’s rear-end with the tip of his boot, an act of respect, considering most of his dogs would get a swift kick up the butt for not jumping to his demand.

The doom of the stillness hit Barry. He squatted down by Duke and gave his favorite dog a jostle. Instead of the usual warm plush ear, his fingers touched fur that felt stiff and lifeless.

“Níl!” he cried out.

The metal spoon clanked down on the stove within the kitchen, and Noreen’s hurried steps approached.

“Níl, goddammit!”

She peered through the door. “What is it, Barry?”

“They got Duke!” He briefly massaged the dog’s head, but feeling death again, he stopped. “Noreen, he was a good ol’ dog.” He rubbed at his own forehead and winced in anguish. “We got tuh stop this madness!”

Barry dropped his head and held back the urge to cry, forcing the sadness down deep within his gut, where it could chew at him like a coral snake on stiff boot leather. There was no use letting the little woman see his weakness. Nor would he indulge in it himself. He snuffed out the final hint of emotion and stoked his anger.

He scrutinized Duke, looking for blood, breaks, or signs of a snake bite under his ears, his neck, and upon his stomach. He found nothing.

“Third goddamn dog oi lost this month. Someone’s poisoning ‘em, and they’re gonna pay. We’re doing that Ouija!”

Noreen looked back toward their grandsons sitting at the table. They were a handful to manage with their daughter in town caring for an elderly woman for the next two days. However, the worried look in her eyes confirmed she would cooperate, and he figured she dreaded what they would discover.

“Git those kids fed and tuh bed early.”

“I will,” she said, and at twenty minutes past the hour, kept her word.

Once tucked, Barry bid them goodnight. A rare occasion with plenty of warning punctuated with a stern directive. “You boys stay in bed … yuh hear me?” The attention served as an implicit warning. He could not risk them getting up for even a sip of water and witnessing his and Noreen’s dabbling on the witchboard.

“Don’t make me git that belt out. Yuh hear me? Not a peep,” he said, glaring into each set of innocent eyes with his stiff, calloused finger pointing at them.

Upon their cowering nod, he turned and shut the door.

There was no harm in putting the scare in them, and he wouldn’t really beat them bloody

. . . .

Barry left for his mission bright and early the next morning, cold, steel shotgun in hand. His unfed barking hounds announced their concern through yips and howls while the sweet song of forest birds tweeted from the towering evergreens. But he paid no mind as adrenaline flooded his senses, stoking the energy to execute his deed of vengeance.

He jumped into his old ‘33 Ford Pickup, drove to the end of Hoot Owl Way, and made a left heading further up into the mountain, navigating the bumps and turns with a rickety bounce that jarred his clenched jaws. Today, Fil was going to get what he deserved. His shifty eyed greetings in town made more sense after last night’s Ouija session had exposed his guilt.

Barry came to an abrupt halt in front of his neighbor’s home, grabbed his shotgun from the passenger floorboard, and flung open his door. With his dogs singing a united song of encouragement in the distance, he stalked onto the property and stopped halfway up the walkway.

“Fil! Git out here, yuh son-of-a-bitch!”

He propped his shotgun on his shoulder while watching the bustling of movement inside Fil’s home.

“Fil!”

“We don’t want any trouble with you, Barry,” Fil’s wife, Helen, said through the screen door.

“Well, trouble’s here. And oi have no issue with yuh, Helen. It’s that husband of yuh’s. Oi wanna talk tuh him!”

Truthfully, he had never liked Helen. A repulsive woman—her long nose with the single-haired wart was framed by haggard gray hair she refused to pull back into a proper bun. No respectable woman, and she reminded him of the scariest witches he had seen in books warning against dark magick.

The screen door opened, and a weary man stepped onto the porch. His squinty eyes begged for mercy before he opened his mouth. “Barry, what are you doing here with that gun? I got the family all home for the holidays, and you’re scaring every one of ‘em.”

Barry could hear the whispering within the house but did not care. He had a score to settle. “Yuh the one’s been poisonin’ moi dogs, Fil?”

Fil stood and said nothing as the distant howling persisted. After a moment of pause, his confession poured forth. “Well, Jesus, Barry, can you blame me? Listen to that!” He looked down the hill in the direction of Barry’s home. “Nonstop, day in and day out.”

“Those dogs are moi loivelihood, Fil. They put food on the table for moi family, and … the last one yuh took … he was a good dog.” He shook his head, full of regret for not catching this son-of-a-bitch before he got to Duke. “Yuh got no roight.”

Fil started to reach into his deep suspender pocket.

“Don’t do it!” Barry warned, knowing that Fil owned a gun.

“Barry—” Fil said, grabbing the object within his pocket.

BANG!

Barry’s deafening shot riddled Fil with bloody holes, sending his body into spasms before he hit the ground. Simultaneously, the house’s front window shattered in a violent spray of glass, another effect of Barry’s buckshot.

Helen’s scream preceded her thrusting open the screen door, smashing it to the outer wall as she dashed onto the porch and fell to Fil’s side, weeping over his still, bloodied body.

Barry numbed for a moment, seeing her trauma. Then he turned, feeling the strength of his justice as he marched back to his truck. He knew Fil had a gun. Had he not shot first, he’d be dead.

From behind, he heard a small child yell out from inside the house, “Grandmother, Aunt Sophie’s bleeding.”

Another voice yelled out. “Jimmy’s hurt, too!”

Jimmy? Barry felt a twinge at the mention of others hurt, but he also believed in guilt by association. The whole family probably knew about the wrongdoing. Hell, they could have even been in on it.

Suddenly, violent squalls of hysteria from within the house joined Helen’s lone, moaning cry. A chorus of dissonance that drowned out the howling song of his mongrels.

Barry plopped down on his truck seat and set his weapon back to the floorboard, picturing Jimmy, Fil’s young grandson … but no! He had every right to serve this justice. Fil had brought the grief upon his own family, and he surely should not have reached for his weapon.

Forcing the stubborn clutch into gear, Barry rolled onto the street. When he saw Helen in his rearview mirror, running toward his truck, he sped up, leaving her in a wake of dust.

She shrieked out in an anger he did not know she possessed. No matter. He refused to look back, even when her message reached his hearing ears.

“Curses to you, Barry Kelly! And cursed be your family!”

. . .

Four years after Barry’s buckshot took the life of Fil, Fil’s daughter, Sophie, and his grandson, Jimmy, trouble brewed again. Barry paced the living area as Noreen sat teary-eyed and fretting, mending his pajama bottoms. Their two grandsons sat at the table, eating sweetbread to the wailing cries of their mother suffering from a difficult labor.

Fil’s widow, Helen, had summoned the devil’s work upon them when Barry was found not guilty of murder. He knew it for sure now, thinking back to how everything had unfolded. A short time after the trial, Helen sent a handwritten letter warning him that “by her soul and blood,” she had cast a curse that would ensure the Kelly bloodline was wiped from the earth by the fifth generation. She signed the letter with her name and bloody thumbprint and had each surviving family member do the same. If not for the ominous subject, it would have looked like a young-un’s school project.

Initially, Barry had shucked off the hoopla and tossed the written threat into the fire.

However, within weeks of Helen’s foreboding announcement, Barry’s eldest son ailed with influenza. After a week of sweat-soaked bedsheets, vomiting, and delirious fever-inspired rantings, he had died. The next year, while visiting, their middle son had been killed while hunting; his body found by one of Barry’s own tracker dogs. The local authorities suspected a mountain lion attack based on the deep claw marks and the fact his body had been gutted like a river trout and dragged into the brush.

Barry walked over to his liquor cabinet, poured himself a stiff shot of Bushmills, threw it back, and swallowed the punishment. The burn down his gullet took away the worry. But only for a moment.

Still, his daughter cried out in pain.

Tilting the empty glass, he watched the last drop coat the base, refusing to release into his mouth. He clenched his jaw, remembering his youngest son, the one who had liked to go fishing and hang out with his daddy as a boy. The kid was a hell of a shot with the rifle, too. But he had died in June, a casualty on the beaches of Normandy. Three sons born and raised. Three sons in the grave.

He took another shot, then firmly rapped the glass on the counter, grabbing the attention of Noreen and the boys. Just as quickly, his grandsons refocused on their sweetbread.

“Mrs. Kelly,” the nurse beckoned.

Noreen disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Now, their only daughter, whose husband had disappeared that year during a hunting trip, faced a perilous delivery. This third grandbaby had a stubbornness—twelve hours and still it refused to emerge. He felt sure he would lose both his daughter and the baby, with Helen’s curse inflicting another deathly blow.

He cleared his throat to hear just a moment of something other than her cries. Then he closed his eyes and prayed for her safety from Helen’s wrath. As their only remaining child, they needed her, and he and Noreen could not raise her two boys alone.

Noreen walked back out into the hallway, her bewildered expression inviting reassurance.

“She’s been through this twoice before,” Barry said, taking his woman into his arms. “Don’t yuh worry.”

Noreen’s face brightened when she saw the boys looking at her, their eyes fixed like scared bunnies hearing predatory footsteps. “Hey, boys, your mama’s going to be all right. She’s just having a tough time right now. Why don’t we get some fresh air?”

Noreen walked them out to the porch, clearly trying her best to distract their worried minds.

Inside, the wailing continued.

He could not take much more of this.

Then, silence.

Barry absorbed the sudden settled peace, pleasing to his weary ears and mental strain. Hopefully—

The squall of a newborn baby traveled through the closed door.

“Thank the Good Lord,” he said, feeling the relief of his daughter’s successful delivery. He bowed his head in prayerful appreciation, then enjoyed the next few minutes of silence with a renewed faith.

“Mr. Kelly,” the doctor said, coming up behind him.

Barry turned to find the doctor holding a swaddled newborn.

“You have a beautiful, healthy granddaughter.” His tone sent mixed messages—happy and sad, regretful and congratulatory. He gestured for Barry to take the infant. “She asked that the child be named Bethie if that pleases you.”

“Well, how’s …”

The doctor lowered his head, his voice hushed. “Mr. Kelly, I’m sorry, but we could not save her.”

Barry’s throat dried, and his disbelief choked him. He looked out the screen door at Noreen and the boys, but the doctor placed Bethie into his arms, drawing him back.

He stifled the disappointment and looked down at his first and only granddaughter. He found a glimmer of hope in her bright pink nose, rosy cheeks, and the sprigs of wispy red hair upon her misshapen head.

“I’m sure you’re aware the head takes its permanent shape in the days to come. This is simply the effect of the birth canal.”

Barry smiled yet felt the urge to cry. Joy. Sadness. It did not matter because he would not release the tears, anyway. Instead, he focused on this newborn child.

“She’s a real healthy spirit … real strong … good color, as you can see.” The doctor pointed to Bethie’s rosy cheeks. “Looks like she has your hair color, too.” He kept his smile subdued.

Barry looked down at his granddaughter and held his breath. He had loved his own kids and now had lost them all. For a moment, he faced the severity of three sons and a daughter, lost to the attrition of their father’s sin.

He cleared his throat and stood taller. Little Bethie offered a chance at redemption. Atonement for his awful decision that he would take back, if only possible. Her birth represented the promise of life despite Helen’s deadly curse.

Bethie gave a small wriggle in his arms. She cooed and briefly opened her swollen eyes. Just as quickly, she eased them shut again.

“Is she—”

“She’s fine,” the doctor said. “She’s just resting. However, she needs to eat. Do you have cow’s milk? Or goat’s? Ewe’s?”

“Oi think so.”

“Barry?” Noreen said, peering through the screen door. Upon seeing the baby, she burst through, joy brightening her face. Broad smiles also grew on the boys’ faces as they rushed in to greet their little sister.

Barry held tight to baby Bethie, not wanting to let her go.

Noreen stroked the infant’s cheek and looked at the doctor.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head.

All color left her face, and she ran toward the bedroom, her cries building as she barged through its door.

Barry felt bad for her but figured it no use wishing for something other than reality. Kneeling, he introduced the boys to their new little sister.

“Declan, it’s going tuh be your job as big brother tuh take care of her.”

“Yes, sir. I will,” Declan assured his grandfather, his innocent eyes serious to the cause.

“I’ll help too,” his little brother chimed in.

“Of course, yuh will, buddy. Okay, boys. We need tuh give your granny a little toime in there, then oi want yuh tuh go say goodboi tuh yuh mama. She’s gone tuh heaven.” Barry motioned to the boys with a serious look. “Go … wash up, and no tears. Yuh be strong for both of ‘em.”

They trudged to the hallway bathroom, hesitant of their weeping granny and the sympathetic nurse by their deathly still mother.

Barry stared down at Bethie. She was such a treasure.

“A stóirín,” he said, words from his distant homeland.

He welcomed the change that washed over him. He would do right by this child. In fact, the joy she brought to his soul after so much heartache made him want to be a better man. From this day forward, he would work at being more forgiving, and not hit so hard on his whuppins. In fact, other than the dogs, maybe he would never whup again.

“A stóirín, Bethie,” he said again, the tears finally escaping. H

e would raise his grandchildren with more love than he had ever given any of his own kids. He would even try to be a little more patient with Noreen. More than anything, he would never draw a gun again, as violence no longer had a place in his world. “Bethie, moi little treasure,” he whispered to the infant, not wanting to wake her.

Still, serious work needed to be done. He and Noreen would fight fire with fire to protect what precious little family they had left.

He had always held tight to his faith, praying nightly that the widow’s bane held no power against them. That her threats fell anemic to the Good Lord in Heaven. But he had gone to a darker side when he had created and then used the Ouija, and since that decision led him to kill, maybe God had forsaken them. Therefore, they would need to find other methods of protection, and since Helen had cursed his family with dark magick, they would resort to the same measure to deflect it.

Off to Arizona

~ December 2020 ~

Fueled by caffeinated soda and lively Tejano music blaring from his pill-shaped Bluetooth speaker, Mateo pried the wood planks from the foundation of the tiny mountain house, sweating and swearing with each mashed finger. Only a dozen planks had come loose so far. It surprised him how much effort he needed to put forth in the demolition despite nearly a century of aging.

“You know, some lady killed that serial killer in here a couple months back … end of summer. Um, Henry something,” Jack bellowed from the dining area, where he duplicated Mateo’s de-boarding efforts. He appeared in the doorway, following his remark with narrowed eyes and booing like a ghost while wriggling his fingers.

“No way. So that’s straight-up blood stains in there?” Mateo asked.

“Yep. You remember all that in the news? The showdown up here in the mountains.”

“Yeah.”

“When the boss assigned me the inquiry, I wondered if that’s what I’d be quoting. Of course, when I got here, it sure looks like a bloody battle went down. Then, I see the owner’s name—Arista Kelly—one of the stations let the name slip before it all went hush-hush. Protecting the victim, I suppose.”

“Damn,” Mateo commented, calculating Jack’s facts.

“When her boyfriend gave me the keys, he said she’d been staying with a relative down the street.”

Mateo grunted at all the new information. He had only a vague memory of their key exchange from the previous week since his attention had been on his wife’s phone call.

“Now, they’re off to Arizona, and I don’t think they’re coming back till next year. So, the boyfriend will be here end-of-week for the sign off,” Jack added, eyeing Mateo’s technique.

Mateo considered his work, seeing it in a new, grotesque light, and groaned. He pried at another plank and tossed it aside before picking up his rag and wiping the sweat from his face. “Rigorous,” he said, wedging his crowbar into another crack.

Jack laughed. “Yeah. Careful you don’t bring the dead home with you. Anyway, I’m due for a break. You wanna take thirty?” Jack asked.

“Let me get this done first so I can start fresh on the next section.”

“Okay. I’ll be at the truck. But seriously, this house is supposed to be haunted.”

“Great,” Mateo said, watching Jack head outside.

With the front door left open, the chilly December breeze crept through the house and cooled his sweat, sending shivers up his forearms. He felt the rise of goosebumps as the chill traveled across his shoulders. “Shut the door!” he hollered.

With Jack’s selective hearing, the door stayed open.

Shaking off the discomfort, Mateo hastened his effort on his current board, only to see the very edge of something tucked beneath the flooring. Another board stripped, and the edge of a case became visible. Two more earnest efforts and the object sat in clear view—an antique canvas suitcase with rusty hinges.

His imagination ran wild. What if it was a cache of loot? He craned his neck, looking down the hall and out the door at Jack, reaching into his brown bag.

He got up to shut the door. “Hey, please keep this shut. You’re letting all the cold in,” Mateo said, with a firm slam.

Through the door’s glass panes, he saw Jack nod with his mouth full of sandwich and pick up his phone.

Mateo resumed his position on the floor and pulled the case from the exposed earth. A simple click of brittle latches revealed a cache of papers and trinkets. He picked up the first page and studied the drawings of what looked to be knots, practice examples scratched out with only one traced over several times. Its appearance, darker than the rest. He flipped to the second. Now, that title caught his attention! “Vision spell, to see clear—”

“Hey, Mateo,” Jack called out as he opened the front door.

Mateo nearly jumped out of his skin and froze with his back toward Jack, hoping he couldn’t see him arms-deep in the client’s belongings. “Yeah, man, what’s up?”

“What time did we get here this morning? I forgot to clock in on the app.”

“Just after nine. Like, 9:07 a.m.”

“Thanks, man.” Jack shut the door.

Relief! He confirmed the heading—Vision spell. While he had never taken a single thing from any of their clients, this topic of vision held his highest interest since his son struggled with his own. Sure, the stuff in this suitcase leaned toward the occult, but that didn’t scare him since his mother-in-law claimed to be a seer. If the supernatural helped her, like she claimed, maybe a secret method lay in this case that could help improve his son’s vision. It sure wouldn’t hurt to try.

Quickly, he re-stacked the papers and snapped the case shut. Since the owners were vacationing in Arizona, he would take it back to the privacy of his house to read further. Of course, he would return it.

He paused, considering the possibility of the house being haunted. He looked at the walls hovering above him and listened. Nothing to hear but the thump of his own heartbeat. The dim natural lighting overhead added a bit of eeriness, but the vibe of the house itself seemed pretty light. Empty more than anything, and he would know. His gut feelings had been well honed over the years with the help of his mother-in-law, a superstitious woman who also talked of her many successful house readings.

With the decision made, he strategized his next move. To get it to his truck without Jack knowing would take some finesse, but sneaking it back in after dark would be easy since they had a house key. Further, they hired him and Jack to tear up the floor. So, if it were that important, they would have put it elsewhere. In fact, maybe they didn’t even know about it? The rust and creak of the hinges suggested no one had opened it in ages.

After checking several spots, Mateo wedged the case in a temporary holding area under the back bedroom headboard. Jack rarely came into the hall, and he had no need to root around in the farthest room.

With the treasure situated, he joined Jack for lunch, then finished the day, biding his time until they had fully prepped their respective sections for the installation on the following day.

“Alright, I got the cleanup. You can go. I know you got that dinner tonight,” Mateo said in a generous offer.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

“Yep. Go for it! I’ll lock up.”

Mateo glimpsed out toward Jack several times before he drove away, then hustled to retrieve the case. He slid it out from under the bed and arose, handle in hand. Unexpectedly, the weak latches gave, and the lid dropped open. In a grand swoop, he saved the contents from crashing to the ground, stuffed them back into their space, and quickly slammed the case shut again. With care, he cradled it in his arms and took it to his car.

. . .

After his wife and son had gone to bed, Mateo snuck out into the garage and removed the old suitcase from his trunk. He took it to his workbench and flipped on the four-foot fluorescent shop light above him. Next, he unsnapped the fussy latches and opened the case.

He wiped at his runny nose before pulling out the second paper and held it up under the bright light to read the entirety of it. “Vision spell – to see clearly a path to heavenly beings and open the doors of full intuition.” He groaned and scanned the page, hoping to find something about actual eyesight, but reached the bottom and accepted disappointment. “All figurative!” He flipped the sheet over—Nothing. Had he wasted all his effort for this?

Again, he wiped at his nagging runny nose and shuffled through the remaining materials. One paper caught his eye. With its ink still vibrant, he read the words aloud. “‘Incant … protection … may this tablet deflect the curse and send the evil back.’” He stopped, not liking those words—curse and evil—nor their meanings. He should have never taken the case.

He had to get it back to that house. After organizing the contents, he shut the lid. It would be easy to put it back under the foundation tomorrow before they installed the new floor.

He yanked up the case by its handle, forgetting his previous error.

The lid flew open, this time sending all the contents to the ground, including a thin slab of stone that broke in half upon landing.

He flinched at the commotion. “Frickin-A!”

He set the case back on his workbench, picked up the stone halves, then the papers, and put them all back inside. For formality’s sake, he snapped the useless latches.

“What are you doing out here?” Alicia, his wife, said from the door.

He jumped at the sudden voice.

Alicia laughed and said, “Feeling guilty about something?”

Deflection. “Nope, just forgot my phone on the bench.” He quickly shut off the overhead light before turning around, knowing his body had blocked the view of the case from her. She’d go ballistic if she, number one, knew he had taken something from a jobsite, and number two, knew the “evil” contents that lay inside it. He barged past her. “Just got sidetracked with my new tools. Thanks again! Killer birthday present … best ever!”

“Uh-huh! Maybe I should look at your phone,” she said, feigning suspicion.

“Go for it,” he said, handing her the cell as they shut the old case in the garage behind them.

. . .

The early morning alarm came too soon and jangled Mateo’s nerves. He could barely open his eyes from the stickiness that enveloped them, and his runny nose had turned into a full-blown, congested headache. With his ears plugged and his jaws stiff, he felt like a semi had hit him.

He wished Alicia had not already left for her job. Nevertheless, he dragged himself out of bed, every inch of his body aching. This did not feel like the usual head cold, and no way would he make it to work today. Still, he took the precaution and trudged to the medicine cabinet, removing the generic over-the-counter test packet for the superbug for which the governor had shut down the state.

Moments later, all became clear with the positive results. He phoned Jack and gave him the news.

“Great. Hopefully, I don’t catch it,” Jack said with a groan. “Anyway, hope you feel better. Enjoy your ten-day quarantine.”

Mateo hung up the phone and could barely drag himself back to the sanctity of his warm covers. Now, Jack would complete the job without him, and that meant the keys would go back to the owner’s boyfriend before he recovered. At this point, he had no energy to care. With any luck, the owner knew nothing of the old case, but he would keep it tucked away in his office in the event something came of its absence.

Guest Post

Welcome to WERC!

I had seen that ominous figure before. Not only in the build-up to a horror movie’s climax, but also as a silhouette on our property’s dusky skyline. No mistaking the deadly silence as she flew toward me. Suddenly, she outstretched her talons, and I anticipated the fierceness of her landing. This was no chance encounter. I knew I would meet this beautiful winged creature, and the Great Horned Owl came to a rest on my forearm.

This story began weeks before on a hot summer day at an auction. I had already worked with The Wildlife Education and Rehabilitation Center (WERC) out of Morgan Hill, California on a barn owl release, so I could not wait to see what exciting packages they had in store for us donors looking to support them in funding the expansion of their shelters. As we roasted in the ninety-plus-degree day, sipping white wine in fine clothing, the auctioneer belted out his escalating bids. Alas, the wildcat experience far surpassed our budget. However, the chance to meet the raptors sounded just as thrilling and manageable, and in minutes, my husband had secured my appointment to meet “Luna” and her many fellow lodgers.

The day of the experience brought no less excitement. A grand tour of WERC’s rescue center and its inhabitants included a barn owl, a falcon, a small burrowing owl, and plenty of other majestic, carnivorous birds. With the informative presentation behind us, the tour guide had me don a thick leather falconry glove and gave me instructions on how to properly receive Luna. Then, she prepped the wickedly gorgeous bird, and all breath left me as Luna flew toward me. While female great-horned owls usually weigh under five pounds, her abrupt force upon landing on my arm felt jarring. But only briefly because, as she settled on her temporary human perch, I marveled at the encounter; an exhilaration you will never know unless you experience it!

If ever in the Bay Area in late summer, check out WERC’s auction. I am quite confident that come late-August of next year the luncheon tickets will go on sale, and maybe a similar, magnificent encounter can be yours. Most encouraging, the benefits of these luncheons, their auctions, and sustained monetary support enabled WERC to secure its new five-acre rehabilitation center. Not only have the animals benefited from this tremendous effort, but schools are better able to visit, teaching children about the wonders of our rich local wildlife! Still, there is a substantial amount of work to be done before completion and WERC is always so appreciative of any donations. Find out more at https://www.werc-ca.org/

No chance of making it to Cali? A quick Google search proved very easy to find similar organizations spanning from North Carolina to Oklahoma to Washington … nationwide! So reach out, donate, and spread the word!

About the Author, Sherri Dodd

Sherri grew up in southeastern Texas walking barefoot and catching crawdads as they swam the creek beds. Her childhood ran rampant with talk of ghosts, demons, and backcountry folklore, inspiring her first short story about a poisonous flower that shot toxins onto curious children. Her classmate bought it for all the change in his pocket. Not long after, her mother packed the two of them up and headed to the central coast of California. She has explored the vast area ever since, using it as a catalyst to her writing, from journaling to fitness articles to fiction. She holds a bachelor’s degree, and is pursuing her master’s, in holistic theology and believes this helps her to see the world through a more colorful and accepting lens.

In writing, her publisher labeled her 2024 debut novel as a paranormal thriller. She would have described it as a cozy murder mystery with generous dashes of magic realism, showing that she loves to merge genres. Her trilogy — Murder, Tea & Crystals — released book one - Murder Under Redwood Moon in March 2024; book two - Moonset on Desert Sands in March 2025; and the final book in the series- Hummingbird Moonrise released October 2025! All three books became an Amazon #1 Best Seller in the Occult Supernatural genre.

You can follow the author at:

Website: www.sherridodd.com

Instagram: @Sherri.Dodd.Author

Book Giveaways

The Muffin giveaway runs from Nov. 2 to Nov. 15 https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com and includes a copy of Hummingbird Moonrise plus all sorts of fun things like candles, oracle cards, gemstones and more. TWO winners will be selected so double the fun!

#metaphysicalfiction #paranormalmystery #kindleunlimited #giveaway #booktour #SherriDodd #cozywitch #WOW #womenonwriting

Blog Tour Calendar

November 2nd @ The Muffin

Join us as we celebrate the launch of the final book in Sherri Dodd's Murder, Tea & Crystals trilogy: Hummingbird Moonrise. Read an interview with the author and enter the giveaway.

https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com

November 4th @ Boys' Mom Reads!

Get a sneak peek at the final Murder, Tea & Crystals book with an excerpt of Hummingbird Moonrise.

https://karensiddall.wordpress.com

November 5th @ Knotty Needle

Judy reviews Hummingbird Moonrise, a magick realism mystery.

http://www.knottyneedle.blogspot.com

November 6th @ Chapter Break

Sherri Dodd shares what it's like when an author comes to The End of A Trilogy.

https://chapterbreak.net/

November 7th @ Boots, Shoes and Fashion

Author Sherri Dodd takes a break from writing to share how Yoga Can Improve Your Life.