Tuesday, August 27, 2013


(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter Twenty (Part One)

I was taking in what details I could of the English coast as we dropped anchor at Port Brimscombe where we would then make arrangements for a train on to London, and prepared to disembark.

I was rendered breathless by the Port, appreciating the sweeping landscape before me. As dusk set, lamplighters were busy at their trade; creating a winking path of golden streetlamps blazing forth to illuminate the lines and depth of the brisk seawall. Streets ahead led under arches and down busy lanes.

Two other similarly impressive ships as ours had moored ahead of us and the bustle surrounding the docks resembled a swarm of insects over the boats. Ours was apparently the last big ship scheduled in for the evening.

I drank in the sea at twilight, pausing for a moment as the sounds of the harbor washed over me, the chaos and hurry, the business and the comings and goings, meetings and partings. There was great beauty before me; I found myself enthralled by the sound of so many different classes and ranges of accents.
I couldn't worry about how Jonathon would find me, for there were men and women, families, friends, all finding one another, somehow, through the chaos. Bonds will out. Longing and fondness will bring the missing reunited. Surely, it would be a matter of moments… We'd come this far by faith. What was one more seeking out…

Ports were full of endless possibility, and I sensed the raw emotion of meetings and partings, of dreams setting sail and hopes deferred, of quests and longings, of departing citizens already dearly missed. The charge and power of a harbor was one of the most invigorating hubs of any society, and I thrilled and thrived in it here, as I did in New York. A sea of passengers buffeted around me as I descended the broad gangplank and onto first the wooden dock, then ahead, the cobblestones of the bank street.

When I looked around for Lavinia, realizing I'd been separated from her in the thick of the disembarking masses, she was nowhere to be seen. This was the first swift kick of terror to my gut.

The second came when I was seized and thrown over a shoulder.

And that was a far more terrible terror indeed.

My cry of surprise was lost in the din as I was taken into an alley. I tried to kick, but my legs were held fast, and though I pounded my fists against a broad back, soon another set of hands put a gag around my mouth, seized my wrists, and bound them with a thick piece of fabric, and I was thrown inside a carriage where Lavinia sat wide-eyed, bound and similarly gagged.

We stared at each other, the panic upon our faces was evident, and I prayed so hard that somehow my message to Jonathon in our previous shared dream would mean that since he was expecting me, he'd notice if I'd gone missing. Somehow, he'd come find me. Somehow he'd know how to save me, just as I had done for him. It was what we were meant to do. A princess who saved a prince who saved his princess…

I wondered if Lavinia was thinking the same thing, wondering if somehow Jonathon and Nathaniel were working together, thinking together, plotting, and problem solving together, would rescue us together…

I looked around at our unexpected prison. It was the finest carriage I had ever been inside. It was spacious, an imposing black lacquer space with silver fittings and detailing, with dark green velvet curtains and the same green velvet covering the benches that faced each other.

Lavinia had been deposited across from me, her lovely black gown fitting for this imperious space were she free to enjoy it. But her bright eyes darted about as mine did. I shifted, hefting myself forward, and as the carriage lurched, I came down on my knees on the dark wooden floorboards.

With a groan of pain, I shifted my torso so that my bound hands behind me could fiddle with the carriage handles, seeing if I could open a door. Lavinia watched me with hopeful eyes. The carriage was locked, that was quite clear from my wresting, shifting efforts with the door and the latch that should have opened it. It must have been secured upon the exterior by another lock or pin.

Lavinia nodded, seeing my efforts, and she then tried to stand. Her red tresses jostled against the dark, carved wooden ceiling as she tried to draw back one of the curtains to see out the glass windows we could only glimpse the edges of. But it would seem the corners of the curtains had been secured in a way we couldn't gain purchase upon, tacked down by ornate silver pins. She tried to wrest the heavy fabric one way, then the other, which only succeeded in her throwing herself inadvertently from one side of the carriage to the other, colliding against the green velvet benches. Her face contorted in a wince of pain.

We sat back down together on the same side, each of us hearing a rip as a hem of our skirts tore. We had no hands to ensure the safe shift of the layers of fabric from one position to another. There was a long moment of us just breathing heavily, swaying and bouncing as the carriage trundled on.

This was the carriage of someone of means. That surely didn't bode well for us. People with means had many resources at their disposal to do with women what they pleased. I could feel the familiar panic of being in a life or death situation—A feeling I did not like but seemed so ridiculously accustomed to by this point—rise within me, the heat of my body, the thump of my heart, the drying of my mouth, the plummet of my gut, the prickling of my hairs, the desire to scream…but none of that physical reeling would keep me or Lavinia alive. Somehow, my mind remained sound.

I tried to get a sense of where we were, any telling clues of sound or scent, but the jostle of the carriage and the occasional neigh of the horse team that was hefting us along at a great clip was din enough; no details surpassed the clatter. At some point we did cross from cobblestones to earth, so we were heading out of the city proper.

At least an hour passed. Maybe two. Time was hard to tell in captivity and helplessness. The fact of how little we'd slept the night prior was catching up to the both of us, and at one point we realized we'd folded over each other in an exhausted collapse, lulled by the constant rhythm and steady pace of the carriage flying over well-packed paths.

When one of us started awake, the other did, all we could do was look into each other's eyes and feel empathy. This went on for some time until the carriage came to an abrupt halt with the sound of a male shout, the piercing whinny of the team of horses, a clatter of the harnesses, and a lurch of the cab.

There was the sound of footsteps climbing down from above, the carriage rocking slightly in the effort, a thud of feet on both sides. And the sound of two deadbolts being thrown back, simultaneous. A hand upon each carriage door. The lever turned…

Lavinia and I stared at each other in abject terror. At least one aspect of our fate was about to become clear. Our heads whipped back to each respective door. I wanted to face my abductor and stare him down with whatever strength I could muster.

The doors on either side of the carriage were flung open, and in leaned our captors: two handsome, black-haired gentlemen, looking rather pleased with themselves…


(End of Chapter 20.1 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter Nineteen

Another uneventful few days passed where Lavinia and I spoke of life, dreams, and spent nearly a day hashing out our favorite novels. Austen and the Brontë factored in as our lady heroes, though a wealth of Gothic novels crowned Lavinia's favorite muses above all else. Whereas I gravitated more specifically, solely, to Edgar Allan Poe. Because there was a truth to his words, stories, poetry that resonated with me more than the sweeping romantic gestures of others. Lavinia, like Nathaniel, enjoyed the theatrics. But I understood Poe's pining, his loss, and also, his horror. That hit, unfortunately, so close to home.

And of course we spoke of our loves and of hopeful futures. We attempted to be consummate ladies on a delightful, carefree journey, taking tea in the finer tea rooms specifically to distract ourselves with pretty place settings. It seemed an unspoken agreement to entirely ignore the dread that sat in my stomach, and I’m sure hers too.

England now was closer than it was farther, and I allowed myself a bit of excitement about docking. I'd be seeing Jonathon, surely. Somehow, I'd find him; I knew names and locations, and perhaps, once we were there, he could take a moment to show me his world, his city, a place I'd always yearned to visit.

A part of me was sure he'd be slightly angry for my making the journey. The rest of me was sure he was absolutely expecting it.

But still, I had to let him know, and as he'd given no itinerary, no specific instructions, I was left to my own devices in terms of communicating with him. So, I used our unique and unparalleled connection: our meeting of the minds and entwining of the souls.

Thusly, I forced myself to dream of Jonathon, and thankfully, enough of me knew my life was on the line to agree to a subconscious demand.

Shockingly enough, no corridor in this dream! I almost didn't even know I was dreaming. I was presented with an entirely literal dreamscape, at least at first, a desperate telegraph from a desperate woman.

I was standing on the deck of a ship, this ship, the one I would remain on until we arrived to port two days or so from now. There was a great gale around me. I was wet, struggling to stand, hearing the crash of waves upon the steel hull, the splash of water across the deck, feeling the sting of whipped moisture across my cheek, but I held to a rail and shouted into the storm, for there before me, a few paces away, stood Jonathon. He was turned away from me, but as always, distinct.

I knew it was him- black frock coat, black shoulder-length hair whipped back in the wind, his frame, his stance, his height, and the way my heart pulled towards him like a magnet.

"Jonathon, I'm coming for you," I called.

He whipped around as if he were tossed by the gale, his bright ice-blue eyes luminous in the moonlight, ethereal and otherworldly. His expression was pained.

"That's what the demon said to you. Do you say that to me… because you have been compromised, my beautiful girl?" he asked, calling across the gale, anguished.

"No… Those were the demon's words, but that's hardly what I mean," I protested, reaching out to him, trying to move forward to him, but the pitch of the ship nearly made me lose my balance. Jonathon reeled a bit and regained his footing, still space between us. "I hope you know I'd never let anything within me hurt you…"

I hated that space between us. I needed to be in his arms, to prove what my words only hinted at. I needed his body fully against mine. I needed to kiss him. To go even further. To accept his proposal and act like the betrothed, with certain permissions… I felt a wave of heat radiate down my body. We were not meant to be so separated. Not in spirit, not in body.

"I am coming to England," I clarified. "I must help you. Because I need you. I want you."

He let those words settle in, in the myriad ways I meant them. A lady could say this to the man who was her hero and partner. I could not be ashamed of what neither my body nor my mind knew was right and true.

"Why, Natalie, of course I want to see you. Of course I feel the same. But we don't know what we'll face, this was foolish—"

"You know me better than to think I won't come for you—"

He laughed wearily. "That I do. But take care. People may be on to us. I am not sure when or where we can meet, safely, there is so much sniffing about. We're trying to be the bloodhounds, but there is an arsenal of similar dogs trying to out us. We've tried to play our cards brilliantly, but we maintain constant vigilance."

"How shall I find you?"

"I will find your steamer. Do you know what day you arrive?"

"Dusk. Two days hence. Lavinia is with me."

"Oh, is she?"

"She planned this, separately. She'll not allow Nathaniel to slip away any more than I will you."

Jonathon smiled. "He'll be glad to hear it—"

"So he is with you?"

"I seem to attract the best company. Don't find me, I will find you. And when I do, just… You’ll have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

“I do,” I cried, wishing that were another proposal if not a wedding vow.

He grinned. “We are so lucky our dreams are like letters and telegraphs. Only better, because I get to see you… And oh, look at you, you're all wet…" His noble voice descended in pitch, to a purr that somehow still carried across the storm.

And suddenly he was the one to close the distance between us. He seized me roughly and drew me into a furious kiss, the saltwater of his lips crashing over mine like the waves upon the ship. My soaked dress revealed the full contours of me to his bold and questing fingertips. Perhaps the fury of the storm was an excuse to be rough with me. Never has a girl so welcomed a squall.

He pinned me against a large cabinet bearing life vests, and this steadied us for our deepening kisses, soft cries, bold and searching caresses. And in this storm, we sunk together into our desperate need, as much of a force of nature as the pitch and roil of the boat. I noted all the ways in which I knew he desired me, and I blushed into the gale, and I wanted more.

I welcomed this abandon that would risk all, as I had always welcomed our physical trespasses. I could not think of anything carnal between us as anything but sacred, for magic had bid us be lovers, and being lovers was its own magic.

"Come to me, then, Natalie Stewart," he growled, his words thrusting against my ear as he did against my body. "And let's finish all that we started…"

I woke up perspiring, my nerves making the moisture of the gale real, and my body was alive. Shaking. Humming with titillation. Furious that I was now awake and no longer his willing captive.

It dawned on me that this was the first dream in my memory that wasn't a nightmare.

This didn't change the fact that I faced a living nightmare ahead of me.

But for now, my love, my lover, my pride and joy, he transformed a troubled mind into a paradise. Even in the storm.
(End of Chapter 19 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

Tuesday, August 13, 2013


(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)
Chapter Eighteen
Dear Maggie,
I would have liked to have written you sooner. But I fell ill. I was, in fact, targeted again, sought out by the demon's tendrils, and laid low by the Master's Society's most recent experimental horrors.
Regrettably, the journey I am on currently will mean it will take even longer for this letter to arrive at your doorstep in Chicago. I embark upon a journey in hopes of resolution, as you have done. I hope you will keep me in your prayers, along with anyone in this dire situation who tries desperately to turn evils around into justices.
From your perspective, considering the expansive and bold contents of your letter, there are things I would like to encourage of you and things I would like to discourage. Not because I think I know any better than you. I chafe at people acting like they "know better" than me. What I write, I write simply because I am trying to take my own advice.
But first, allow me to thank you.
Not for what you did in almost getting us both killed.
But in being willing to reach out, to write a letter, to try and salvage something of what might someday be a truly beautiful friendship. For that, I commend you. It is a brave thing to reach out to another person. I spent most of my life being quite solitary due to my lack of speech, so I understand what breaking isolation means when you've been forced by circumstances to withdraw from average society. Society, for you, meant so much more to you than it ever did to me, so I'm sure your separation from it is all the more troublesome.
But, there are always consequences for actions, and this ostracizing is the unfortunate consequence of your letting the demon in. I believe you are weathering it well, but I would not be a friend to you if I did not share my perspective on these most unique and peculiar and dangerous circumstances.
I encourage you to appreciate Chicago for what it is. My trip out west made me only appreciate New York all the more, so I hope you can truly take in the contrasts as perspective. Absence making the heart grow fonder for home will allow you to reclaim your own self more fully upon your return. You are displaced there for a reason. In my case, I did not weather the effects of dark magic well because I was too quickly wrapped up in it once more, snapped back to New York before the evil had worn off. You need this time, distance, and space for cleansing yourself of the spiritual grime and stain of the demon's making.
I encourage you to listen to the counsel given you there. It is a precious gift. Karen is your guide, as is the lingering presence of lost Amelia. Treasure them as I treasure my deceased mother who yet guides me. Internalize their words and sensibilities down to your core. People like them will save your life. Mrs. Northe gave you the gift and protection of her friends; please see this as her taking care of you. Do not believe for a minute that she doesn't care. She always has, though she hasn't always expressed and acted upon it as thoroughly as she should, in my humble opinion. I do believe she grieves for what more she should have done with and for you. Allow her the opportunity to rectify it here, by sending you somewhere safe, with her dearest companions.
I beg you this: do not entertain the Master's Society's aims in the least.
Do not try to see the perspective of the darkest nature and lend it credence.
Yes, you must understand the enemy in order to fight it. But thinking it has any right to do what it has done or that its agenda is somehow worth considering only gives it more space to breathe. Like a fire that needs air to expand, do not blow upon the embers of the Society. It is already ablaze in several major cities, and the firefighters may be outnumbered. (Well, at the least the police in all cities are entirely unequipped for these conditions.) We'll see how it all plays out. There are many conflagrations that require stamping out.
But, I am dead sure that the answers the Master's Society seeks are to unnatural questions that should not have ever been asked. One cannot invert and pervert the ways of God's kingdom so. I do not believe that the processes of science are meant to undermine God, but the Master's Society members are not scientists. They are backward upstarts, seeking to pervert progress unto chaos.
Most of all, do not feed anger and misery. Do not let it grow within you. That's another way for devils to enter. Don't give them the threshold. Don't show them the door.
The phrase of scripture "I renounce thee" will serve you well. If you were not a person of faith before, I encourage you to become one now, in whatever liturgies or practices that empower you, provided they are about love and not hate, graciousness and not omnipotent power, free will rather than enslavement. Otherwise, it is no faith at all but a prison, one in which your mind and soul will rot.
I look forward to all the ways in which we can become better friends and confidants. And, when we're back in New York, let's us go shopping, shall we?
Your friend,
I stared at the nearly sermon-like response I'd crafted, thinking it might sound a little too grandiose or a little too much of a lecture, but the young woman needed help. And true friends gave sermons if they felt that something needed to be said, for the sake of the friend in need. I'd appreciate this if the situations were reversed. The strange calm I had when I was delegating and instructing others was one I wished I had when I turned inward. But that's the trouble with advice, it's easy to give and hard to take.
I wasn't about to reveal my location or any of the latest clues in that letter, as I didn't feel either were appropriate or useful. And if for some reason this letter were to find its way astray, or heaven forbid, the Society was still after Maggie and had a way of getting to her, I didn't want anything incriminating or too revealing to cause me (or Jonathon) trouble.
Something I had written unlocked something for me. The natural versus the unnatural. The sequence. Mrs. Northe said the Master's Society had a penchant for inverting that which had a divine pattern. I would need to consider the orders of the things I would see. In that, I would know where to look for the disorder, the sinister path veering off from that which was right and true. And therein I might find the chink in the armor of dark magic. Deducing its dissembling pattern and righting it again, subverting the subversion back toward something loving. The simple good in the world they sought to upend.
I knew that this battle, this odd adventure, might upend me. Upend my life. Result in the death that Mrs. Northe feared. I wasn't, despite this impetuous flight, ignoring the base possibilities. But I simply couldn't give them traction to derail my forward momentum. I couldn't stop to think enough to talk myself out of what had to be done:
Find Jonathon. Fight. Enlist the best help along the way we possibly could.
Much like how I knew I had to aid Jonathon from the moment his painting changed before my eyes and gave me clues to help him, I had to do this. Make this journey. See this through. Meet the Society face-to-face. I think I'd always known, somewhere deep within me, it would lead to this, from the first moment I heard the demon wax rhapsodic about the Society's aims there late that night in the Metropolitan.
The world was made by single people doing brave things. Or it was unmade by single people refusing to do what fate decreed.


(End of Chapter 18 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)

Monday, August 12, 2013

DARKER STILL quoted in BuzzFeed's "12 Excellent Quotes About Coffee"

Taking a momentary break from the Magic Most Foul serialization to share a Magic Most Foul quote going viral via BuzzFeed.

What a delight to run down these list of fabulous quotes about coffee and find oneself quoted between Jefferson and Trollope!

Thanks, BuzzFeed! Read the article here.

Love the graphic. From my novel, DARKER STILL:

(Picture by Justine Zwiebel / BuzzFeed )

Tuesday, August 6, 2013


(For previous chapters, see right side bar. If viewing by mobile, scroll down from http://leannareneebooks.blogspot.com for all chapters)

Chapter Seventeen - Part 2

It didn't surprise me that I was in a corridor again. That a simple corridor could take on as many troubling dimensions as it did in my nightmares was perhaps a credit to my powers of invention and manifestation. But a sinking realization hit me during that dream:
The corridors were leading up to something not metaphorical but real and what might be found there would mean life or death at some future date. The corridors would lead up, eventually, to one. Or, at least, to several corridors. But halls all in one place.

The Denbury Estate.

Jonathon had once described his home to me while we communed soul to soul when he was trapped in the painted image of his Greenwich estate's study. The architecture before my dreaming eye followed his descriptions. I stood at the end of a very long, shadowed corridor with gaslight sconces down several sets of doors, all of which were open, some dim threshold manifesting in gray gaps of light amid the dark structure of the house itself. Dark wooden paneling and deep purple wallpaper, arches and carving all in gothic styling, an aesthetic akin to something the Brontës would write about. My life had followed a relative Gothic novel style thus far, why stop there? These were just the culmination, the inevitable final chapters, were they not?

Looking from side to side, I noticed there were numbers painted haphazardly on each door. In a specific sequence, winding down from higher numbers to lower. The pattern; the one Crenfall had been repeating in the asylum. That was odd; houses didn't generally number their rooms. So perhaps I was to consider that a metaphoric clue, not literal.

I'd honed the skill of logical deductions while dreaming illogical things. By now I'd had a bit of practice. Perhaps my mind knew that my life would depend upon it and my every faculty was expanded as a result; perhaps when my soul had split from my body, the part of my mind associated with these realms had taken on greater strength, capability, and a certain dominion over what was presented.

But before I could ruminate further on the nature or logic of the numbers, the hair rising on the back of my neck reminded me that I was in a nightmare and that something dreadful was about to be seen, done, heard, felt, or any combination of the lot. It was the most terrible of inevitable things, to have become so familiar with that dropping, sickening dread swinging like the pendulum in Poe's ungodly pit.

I took stock of the corridor once more. It was empty, and yet, I felt I was not alone. The hallway stretched for a length that seemed absurdly long even for a grand estate, as if all proportions were off. At the end opposite me, an uncomfortably far distance indeed, I was faced by an oval portrait of a person whose details were too faint to make out. Anemic sconces on either side cast a subtle haze over the portrait's façade. I tried to walk toward it, as it might be yet another clue, and it was the item pulling focus, the only thing truly lit with any brightness in this dim setting.

But, per that terrible convention of dreams, my least favorite of all the unfortunate tricks of the troubled mind, I could not move. Not forward, not backward. Not that I could go anywhere; a wall was to my back, the corridor's end. Cool, carved wood paneling crested at the nape of my neck in arched patterns set within the fine mahogany. Leaving me to face the empty corridor with open doors and an unknown portrait. If I found my footing, at least I could go into the other rooms. But what might be in the other rooms was a question I doubted I wanted answered. The corridor answered for me.

With a slam all the doors at once slammed shut of their own accord, and I started, backing against the end of the corridor behind me.

And then, one by one, in a frightening, invisible procession forward, the gas-lit sconces went out. First the lights illuminating the oval portrait went out. Doused. Instantly. Utter blackness lay in direct opposition of my place at the other end. And then from the end of the corridor forward, one by one, each set on either side of the narrow walls were snuffed out as if by a great wind. But there was no wind. And no one there to turn the key. Just an encroaching and all-encompassing darkness, creeping toward me. One set of sconces at a time. Like footsteps, but there were no footfalls.
I tried to step back, to turn and run, but still damnably rooted. I tried to call out for someone, anyone, Jonathon's name upon my lips, but no…

And then the darkness was upon me.
My eyes were wide, the blackness thorough. There was a terrible, terrible pause in which I was helpless and sensory deprived.

Then an icy, unseen hand closed around my throat.

"This time you're coming for me, are you?" came that horrid, familiar whisper of the demon in the pitch dark. Warm breath contrasted its icy strangle as it threw its own words back in my face.

Oh, God. It would be waiting. A congealed but yet incorporeal evil could never truly be killed, could it? It would just keep lying in wait… In New York, or England…it would always know me. Could it ever be bested?

I renounce thee… My mind screamed, words that had helped to keep the beast at bay more than once.

The inhumanly cold vise tightened, and I choked a gasp into the encompassing darkness.

I awoke with a start, nearly hitting my head on Lavinia's bunk above. Breathing heavy, I choked but managed not to have screamed, which was for the best. I doubted making a scene or a fuss involving others on the boat would have helped my seasick nerves.

I took a moment to wonder what I could have learned from that dream, other than the obvious demonic pall. Clearly, if I was to travel to the Denbury estate, I should do so with a torch in hand. And a weapon. And avoid corridors. Noted. Also, try never to be alone. To be alone in a nightmare was a most despairing condition. Even worse, to be alone with potential dark magic swarming the air.

I thought of someone else alone in her own mind, and I pulled out my trusty notebook, neatly tore out a few pages, and began writing a letter to a girl recovering from demons' thrall far, far away. A girl who wasn't nearly as accustomed to loneliness as I had been. Despite all her faults, the Master's Society had taken too much to additionally take away the one peer, the one possible friend she might still have, and the only one that could actually understand her plight. That was me, and I needed to rise to that designation. For I bet the demon haunted her too.

"Margaret Hathorn," I murmured to the page before me. "I owe you a letter."

(End of Chapter 17.2 - Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff.

Cheers! Happy haunting! See you next Tuesday!)