You can now grab the second trilogy of Dowser Series audiobooks directly through MCD (via BookFunnel), narrated by Erin Moon. YAY!
I’ve also listed ALL the audiobooks available directly from me at the bottom of this post. And if you missed why I’m implementing direct sales with audiobooks, please read this blog post.
As you might have noted with some of your other fav authors, a bunch of indie authors/self-publishers are moving to a direct sales/wide sales approach to selling our audiobooks. Mostly because we can give them to you at a much better price and still make more $$ than we have been making through Audible, etc. Audible doesn’t allow us to set our own prices and offers a very low ‘royalty’ rate percentage on their ‘net’ profit per sale. A quick and dirty example would be that you pay $15/credit, or say $24/outright, to buy an audiobook and I see approx. $2 of that sale.
So I write the book, pay for all the editing/covers/etc (approx $4-7k), pay for producing the audiobook (approx $4k), and I only see $2 of your hard-earned money.
So, as you can see, the math doesn’t really work to either of our benefits.
The solution? Direct sales (delivered to you via BookFunnel), starting with the Archivist Series, then the Dowser Series, and then (gradually as I have time) the rest of my audiobooks.
What does that mean specifically? You can now buy my audiobooks directly through me at a discount – $10CDN for full length novels (so currently approx $7USD/$7EUR) – and listen via the BookFunnel app or their website or sideload the files into your device of choice (please don’t ask me how to do it 😂). I make approx. 90% of the sale after paying taxes and processing fees (aka credit card, etc). BookFunnel does not currently charge for this service (because they are still testing it) but when they do they will charge me $10/month to host all my audiobooks ($25/month if I get real, real famous 😂).
Moving forward I will ‘soft launch’ the audiobooks here on my web site/store, then after about two or three weeks, I will also upload the books to all retailers, Audible, Apple Books, Kobo, etc. So you can totally choose to pay more for the books and stick with your fav platform.
I’m peeking out from my writing cave to ready you for what is coming next.
I’m five chapters into my current WIP (Conduit Series) and I’ve already heavily leaned into the following trigger warnings: language and violence. And sex will most definitely be added to the mix, I just have to get through the bulk of the setup first.
And, ahem, speaking of ‘setup’, it’s the mixture of genre ‘tropes’ that might be slightly more disconcerting as you ready yourself for your first read. So far, I’ve got: road trip, kidnapping/rescue, attempted rape, gods/divinity/monsters (aka pretty much the same thing), shapeshifters, magical/mythical creatures, biker pack/gangs, magic/tech geniuses, food porn, milkshake porn, lost love, memory loss, coming of age/magical inheritance, reunification (gone wrong), mysterious past, traumatic pass, human/creature trafficking, found family, choice vs destiny, girl gang, fated mates, why choose, second chance lovers, enemies to lovers, etc, etc, and etc.
The dark-haired sorcerer swathed in black tactical gear at my side ran his hand down my spine — or as much of it as he could reach while I was wearing my dual blades sheathed across my back. His conflicting emotions filtered through to me even as I peered through the magically enhanced binoculars I had trained on a tiny, rocky island in the middle of nowhere.
Literally, nowhere.
Loaded into a heavily armored, magically fortified helicopter, we were hovering over what was practically the midway point between the Barents Sea and the Norwegian Sea, the southern extents of the Arctic Ocean. Though technically, we were off the northern coast of Norway, we’d left that coast behind two hours ago. I couldn’t see even a shadow of the mainland, not even with the enhanced binoculars.
Five days had passed since we’d been sent the first text message from Samantha and Daniel’s kidnapper, and the sorcerer who’d all but shackled himself to my side was still angry. At the situation, yes. But also at me specifically. That didn’t stop him from reaching out, though, or touching me tenderly in the very brief moments we’d grabbed on our way to finding — and hopefully liberating — my blood-bound teammates.
Aiden had his own pair of binoculars. They cut without difficulty through the gloom of the cloudy night — which wasn’t actual night, because the sun never set in this part of the world in June. But they also somehow highlighted magic, picking up the energy that emanated from the magically inclined as well as magical constructs, then tagging that energy in a medium shade of blue that was slightly lighter than the color of Aiden’s power.
It was closing in on 3:00 a.m. Despite the cloaking on the helicopter and the clouds obscuring the midnight sun, we’d waited until early morning to further minimize our visibility.
Even heavily cloaked in cloud, the sun sliding along the horizon, while never rising or setting, unsettled me. Not that I would ever admit that out loud. We’d been moving too quickly and crossing too many borders to do more than snatch a nap here or there, completely ignoring time zones as we passed through. So I blamed the jet lag for the disconcertion, then ignored it.
To my left, Christopher was outfitted in cool-weather tactical gear like Aiden and me, though with fewer pockets than the sorcerer. He wasn’t bothering to keep watch out his side of the helicopter. His magic was a constant low-grade hum on my upper spine while he shuffled his oracle cards and called out quiet commands to our ground team of two over the comms. Mostly, though, he had been content to allow that team to implement the plan it had taken us three days to cobble together, as they navigated their way to the island, then into the research station that occupied the site’s northern tip.
According to our intel, nine nonmagicals occupied the entirety of Bear Island. Researchers. But I had tuned out what exactly they were researching on a barren rock of an island in the Arctic Ocean, more interested in how we were planning to get them out of our way.
Endings and Empathy is the sixth and final book in the Amplifier Series, which is set in the same universe as the Dowser, Oracle, Reconstructionist, Archivist, and Misfits of the Adept Universe series. Click here for the reading order of the entire Adept Universe.
With two of the Five compromised, I had no choice but to go on the offensive. Hiding out — even if I was pretty much in plain sight these days — in the tiny corner of peace we’d carved for ourselves in the Pacific Northwest was no longer an option.
But the person or persons responsible for dragging me away from the life I’d fought to build, to protect? Well, they would regret every moment that I had to divert my attention toward them and away from what I truly wanted. They would regret forcing me to once again become the cold-hearted, sociopathic, genetically constructed magical abomination they’d bred and trained me to be.
The Collective was already done.
I’d destroyed them more than eight years ago.
But apparently, some of those who’d survived now needed a reminder of their demise.
When it was done, I would walk away with everything that was mine to have and to hold. And what I couldn’t outright destroy? I would absorb or claim for myself.
Because Emma Johnson was stronger than Amp5 had ever been.
I’ve been working on a new book/series/universe for a sum total of two days, and absolutely loving it. It might all come to nothing, but it will, at minimum, get my focus back on the creative and get me out of the slump I’ve been mired in for the last couple of weeks.
The raw, untitled excerpt below is unproofed, unedited, and offered up just for fun. My first present tense narrative, so it is undoubtfully a rough read in places, please be gentle with me.
Random shot of MCD’s backyard: the first crocuses of 2023. [A late bloom this year].
The girl at the counter is maybe fifteen. Tiny but long-limbed, her multicolored scraggly hair hides her face as she bows her head over a greasy plate of fries. But I’d seen her deep blue, almost violet eyes as she cast her gaze around the cafe upon entering. Her two companions, who couldn’t look more like stereotypical bikers if they tried — leather jackets, beards, and club patches and all — are easily three times her size. Their grip on her upper arms is beyond proprietary.
The violet eyes are as rare as the power the girl has simmering in her veins.
But it’s the glimpse of the raw skin on the girl’s wrists I catch when she pushes up the sleeves of her overly large, ratty sweater that disturbs me more than the eyes or the power I can feel all the way from the other side of the cafe.
I touch the amulet I wear under my own sweater. Unlike the girl’s hand-me-down, my sweater is a luxuriously soft, thin-knit black cashmere, intentionally oversized and tailored to be figure flattering. For spending the day in the car and the cooler weather, I paired it with merino wool-lined faux leather leggings and lace-up handmade black leather boots.
The girl’s legs are bare. And dirty. If she’s wearing shorts or a skirt, I can’t see either. She isn’t carrying a purse nor does she appear to have a phone. Though anyone else her age — magically inclined or not — is usually glued to at least one device at all times, even this deep into the so-called wilds of the Cascadian territories.
The cafe had gone silent when the trio had entered. And the murmur of conversation is slow to pick up in the aftermath of their bombastically noisy arrival. An older woman had hustled out from the back kitchen area, smiling broadly — wearing the expression like it was armor — and nudging the other, young, female server aside to take the bikers’ orders. She — the owner of the cafe, I assume — ignores the violet-eyed teenager.
Everyone ignores the girl wedged between the bikers perching on the stools at the front counter. Their huge thighs press against hers, caging her between them as they mow through their burgers.
The younger server, her curly blond hair streaked pink and pulled up in a bun, sets my Caesar salad in front of me, cocking her hip against the edge of my table, effectively blocking my gaze of the girl and the bikers. Deliberately?
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Anything else?” she asks stiffly, her pad in hand and expression guarded.
I glance at the salad. It’s taken longer to make and serve than the burgers and fries the trio ordered. Served in a large bowl, the creamy dressing is so thick it’s difficult to discern the green of the lettuce. I should have known better than to order a salad in a roadside diner.
I open my mouth to ask for the bill. But then, my magic speaking for me, I say, “A chocolate milkshake and chicken strips … to go, please,” instead.
The server frowns.
Not completely aware of what I’m doing — born on an innate knowing, the certain to be stupid and utterly foolhardy plan unfolding with each choice I make in the moment — I reach into the side pocket of my bag, pulling out the fold of twenty dollars bills I’d shoved in the side pocket before leaving Seattle. The ‘Wilds’ aka the stretches of neutral, and not-so-neutral territory, between the major cities still prefer cash exchanges. Though the cafe is outfitted with a fairly sleek tablet set to the side of the cash register on the far end of the counter, near the front door. Peeling three green holographically stamped bills from my short stack, I set them on the edge of the table. “I’m actually in a bit of a hurry.”
The server’s gaze flicks over me, then across my table to take in the brand new top-of-the-line phone and the designer sunglasses set next to my elbow. Both items are ridiculously expensive, but though I could, now, rather suddenly, afford such things, I didn’t pay full price for them. I don’t pay full price for anything. Beyond the windows, the sky is gray, rain threatening. But I’d wear the sunglasses in the bright interior of the cafe if I could get away with it. My eyes are perpetually sensitive to light. And for those who know what they are looking at, they firmly mark me as other. In this small outpost, at least. The sensitive sight is one of the drawbacks of the type of power I wield as effortlessly as breathing. The other not-so-effortless castings and manipulations I can do, again a fairly new unlocking of my abilities, come with a far steeper price.
The server is still checking me out, or rather trying to figure me out, shifting her gaze to the large black leather bag on the bench seat beside me. It’s more understated but also worth more than the phone and sunglasses put together.
I add another twenty to the pile of bills on the edge of the table, though it is possible that doing so will make me even more memorable. My actions are being guided by that same flicker of knowing, and unless it comes with a miasma of death and destruction, I usually follow my own innate senses.
Hell, to be completely clear, if only to myself, I usually follow whichever way my magic leads, headlong into mayhem and heartache.
The server sniffs offishly then picks up the eighty dollars and tucks it into her bra in a practiced and minimal move. A tattoo rings her wrist. At first, it appears to be a string of daisies, like those necklaces that some kids make in movies and storybooks. A purely intentional choice, given that her name tag also reads, Daisy. But, hovering at the beginning of what is starting to feel like a major knowing, my unintentional focus reveals a shimmer of numbers hidden underneath, etched into the delicate skin of the underside of her wrist. The numbers are a slave tattoo. The shimmer only someone like me can detect is a twist of fate manacled around her wrist. It’s old and stretched, though she herself is in her early twenties at most, and she’ll wear it — her entire fate anchored in it — until she greets her death.
I look away quickly before she notices and understands what I’ve seen of her.
I shouldn’t have stopped for lunch, pulled so far off the highway. I should have driven straight through from Seattle to Portland and then cut out to the coast. Not because I’m vulnerable or memorable, but because I shouldn’t get involved.
The server tucks her pad in the pocket of her white apron, her gaze flicking to the window, to the parking lot. Two huge motorbikes — the massive noise makers the bikers pulled up on — occupy the spot directly across from the front door, but the server curls her upper lip at the 1972 Silver BMW 3.0 CSI parked in the very last spot adjacent to the windows, to the booth I’m currently occupying, instead.
“Nice ride,” she sneers, either pissed or jealous. Hard to tell.
“My uncle’s,” I say, only partly lying. Mostly because he’s dead, I never met him, and he’d been just a few more generations removed than ‘uncle’ implies.
She snorts, stepping away and crossing around the counter — instead of in front of it, which would put her in arms reach of the bikers — to input my new order on the tablet at the far corner of the counter, next to the cash register. She makes an obvious effort to gaze into the kitchen through the passthrough window, instead of looking ahead of herself while walking. Beyond simply ignoring the bikers and the girl, she’s actively trying to avoid drawing their attention.
I wonder how much market share the local biker club holds in the local slave trade. Then I shove the thought away. Not my business. Really, really not.
I, contrarily, instantly set my gaze on the violet-eyed teenager again, already knowing without actually formulating a plan, that I am about to do something really stupid. I am about to follow a prompt from the universe, snag a thread of fate and twist it to achieve an outcome that isn’t technically mine to direct. Likely more than one thread, and in hindsight, I’d already swayed onto this path rather thoughtlessly, from the moment I pulled off the highway and taken a fifteen-minute detour.
But at least I’d have a milkshake and chicken strips, right? Yeah, I just went with the random requests that occasionally filtered through me from the universe. Well, most of the time.
– Conduit 1, an Alternate Universe Urban Fantasy, first draft
Spill the Tea 2023! Join Hailey Edwards and Meghan Ciana Doidge for afternoon tea in Vancouver BC, Canada on Saturday, May 27, 2023! FUN! FUN! Tickets now available! Click here for more info.
The Dowser Series turns ten! At 12:05 am on June 18, 2023 everyone who participated in the Kickstarter (all tiers) will receive a brand new Dowser series novelette, a new recipe, and an anniversary eCard. And, of course, knowing me, other ‘things of interest’ because I’m always ‘adding on.’ I will send the ingredients list for the new cupcake ahead of time (or you can bake one of the other Dowser cupcakes, or even your own cupcakes, or buy some cupcakes, etc). And on June 18 there will be at least one live event, plus a massive giveaway, etc, etc. If you missed the Kickstarter, I will make the Dowser 9.5 novelette available on all retailers sometime in 2024.
The first six Dowser seriesaudiobooks, narrated by Caitlin Dunn, will no longer be available (one a month, starting in January with Dowser 1). I’ve requested the rights back from my publisher and I am having all new Dowser series audiobooks recorded with narrator Erin Moon (who is from Vancouver! Fun! Fun!). See the schedule above for more info.
The Dowser series book covers are being ‘tweaked’ in anticipation of the upcoming tenth anniversary for Cupcakes, Trinkets, and Other Deadly Magic (Dowser 1). The current covers will only be available until the beginning of June. The trim size of the paperback will not change.
I’m working on a new series for 2023/2024. Well, two new series, one is a space opera (or maybe a sci-fi romance?) and one is an urban fantasy (not set in the Adept Universe. Well, not exactly).
ALL LINKS OF INTEREST IN ONE PLACE
Freebies and Extras (including various downloads and character illustrations/bios).
Adept Universe Reading Order (including full printable list). This info can also be found in the front and back of every book.
Dim sum at Sun Sui Wah was always a delight, but it turned into a fifteen-course extravaganza whenever I had a dragon seated beside me.
Specifically, a six-foot-four-inch, broad-shouldered, dark-blond, blue-green-eyed sentinel who had a serious thing for Chinese food.
Impromptu dim sum outings had become almost a weekly ritual for Warner and me over the previous year. We’d tried just about every restaurant in Vancouver, returning to our first choice after we’d decided it was the tastiest.
The linen-swathed table we were currently occupying in the middle of the restaurant was designed to accommodate groups of eight or more. The host never bothered to seat us at any of the smaller tables that ringed the large open room and were designated for parties of two. It hadn’t taken long for us to gain a reputation. It probably helped that Warner ordered in fluent Cantonese. The sentinel was relaxed and jovial when surrounded by good food and large crowds of people.
Even on a Thursday the restaurant was more than half full and noisy. The management had recently installed two massive TV screens, but none of their clientele appeared to pay attention to whatever sports game was playing at any given time.
Thankfully, brunch or lunch was an easy time for me to get away from work, and Sun Sui Wah was open seven days a week. Because even as stable and predictable as my schedule was, Warner had taken over patrolling the territories of Chi Wen, the far seer, working alongside Haoxin and Qiuniu, the guardians of North and South America. Apparently, it was commonplace for the younger dragons to do so — further training and whatnot — but I was suspicious that it might also be my father’s way of keeping Warner and me from getting too cozy. Either way it meant that the sentinel came and went without much warning.
His unpredictability didn’t bother me as much as I would have thought, though. Probably because it was obvious that he made an effort every single time he walked through the portal in the bakery basement.
Of course, it could also be that he had a knack for picking the perfect shade of green or blue whenever he manifested his clothing. Today, he was wearing a deliciously thin-knit kelly-green merino wool sweater that barely encompassed his shoulders and hugged his ribs and abs just enough to make it difficult to not continuously stare at him.
We’d actually set this rendezvous far enough in advance that I also had the option of making a bit of an effort with my appearance. I opted to wear a new long hoodie of gray cashmere over a dark pair of straight-leg Citizens of Humanity jeans, with a black tank top underneath my T-shirt for extra warmth. The jeans showed off my vintage Fluevogs — golden-brown Giulias with their stacked three-inch heel, from the Fluevog Operetta family. My Christmas presents from Gran — a charcoal silk and cashmere hand-knit triangle scarf, a matching set of wrist warmers, and a ribbed, slouchy hat — were all I needed to add to the outfit to make it outdoor ready. So far, the winter had been mild in Vancouver.
“I thought the wolf was coming back after Christmas?” Warner asked as he reached across the table, expertly picking up a prawn dumpling with his slick plastic chopsticks.
“I texted this morning,” I said. “Haven’t heard back.”
I hadn’t seen Kandy for more than a couple of days in a row since I’d left her in Portland. She’dbeen in Mississippi last July with the oracle, Rochelle, and her shifter boyfriend, Beau. Something had gone down there, but aside from grousing about how she’d ‘saved the oracle’s and the kitten’s asses’ she hadn’t given me any details. Though being close-mouthed was typical for the green-haired werewolf, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened in Mississippi that she didn’t want me to know … or that she was trying to figure out a way to tell me.
I just hoped like hell it wasn’t that she’d laid eyes on a sketch of one of Rochelle’s visions and it was freaking her out. You know, something like my death rendered in charcoal.
Still chewing the dumpling, Warner dipped half a shrimp-and-garlic spring roll in the Worcestershire-type sauce that came with the dish. He popped the crunchy roll into his mouth whole, then raised an eyebrow at me.
“Same with Kett,” I said.
Warner grunted. “The vampire is under house arrest.”
“Sorry?”
“You were worried about the vampire. He’s in London. His elder wasn’t too pleased to find me knocking on his door.”
I stared at Warner, mouth hanging open and everything. “You knocked on the door of the big bad of London because I was concerned?”
Warner shrugged. “It’s good to keep them a little shaken up.”
“How shaken?”
Warner grinned wickedly. “Well, he’s going to have to rebuild a tower that was probably seismically substandard anyway.”
“You … destroyed the big bad’s … castle?”
“Destroyed is such a harsh word.”
I started laughing.
“Damn vampire didn’t want to come with me. I had to formally request permission from the fire breather to enter her territory, then the cold bastard didn’t even want to be rescued.”
“Oh my God … you told Suanmi you were rescuing a vampire and she gave you permission?”
“I might have used the term ‘hunting,’ but yes.”
I attempted to stifle my laughter. I was already drawing attention from nearby tables, which was saying a lot in a huge room filled with large groups of boisterous families.
Warner grinned at me. His chopsticks were poised over the gai lan in garlic sauce.
I wiped tears from my face. “What does house arrest mean?”
Warner shrugged again. “Kett isn’t exactly verbose. But apparently, it’s voluntary … or self-imposed. He seemed pissed that he’d have to cover the cost of the repairs, then sneered at the gold I offered.”
“Kettil, the executioner and elder of the Conclave, is difficult to please.”
“I wasn’t trying to please him.” Warner topped up my tiny mug of jasmine green tea, then lifted his gaze to meet mine.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I’d come to adore the blue starburst that edged the green of his irises. Under the right circumstances, flecks of gold appeared in his eyes as well.
He pushed the final prawn-and-chive pan-fried dumpling — my favorite — across the table toward me, touching the back of my hand as he withdrew his arm. The neck of his sweater opened up just enough that I could see a hint of the dragon tattoo across his collarbone.
Yeah, I was doing that staring thing again. Instead of acting embarrassed, I kept eye contact and slowly curled my lips in a smile.
Warner laughed, low and husky and for my ears only. “Later. We have another stop first.”
“Oh?”
“We’re going somewhere else for dessert. It’s a surprise.”
“Well, apparently you just stormed a castle to rescue my vampire BFF who didn’t actually want to be rescued, so I’ll let you have your dessert secret. For now. But don’t push it, sixteenth century.”
Warner laughed, then raised his hand for the bill.
I finally tore my gaze away from him, dipping the prawn-and-chive dumpling in soy sauce. I’d never been so enamored with anyone before, and certainly not for well over a year. Usually, a couple of weeks were all it took to send me packing. My former boyfriends all had habits … deal breakers … and well, just weren’t … enough.
Some days, being around Warner was almost too much. Too consuming. Thankfully, he had his dragon duties, I had the bakery to distract me, and we met somewhere in the middle every few days.
Still, I wondered if there were just some people you couldn’t get out of your system. Not that I was interested in trying.
