We're going a little darker today with our guest Cate Dean, and her release "Rest for the Wicked." If you're looking for the Hop Against Homophobia, it's right below ...
I love being scared, have ever since I was little. So it’s
no surprise that I am drawn to the spooky, the scary, the supernatural in my
writing.
In Rest For The Wicked I go deeper into
the supernatural than I have before – and the consequences for my characters
were more devastating than even I planned when I first started out on this
journey with them.
As a writer, it is startling – and often unsettling – when the
ending that was carefully plotted is not the ending that actually occurs. As I
headed toward that now inevitable conclusion, I realized that the choices I had
made, the choices my characters made, could have led nowhere else.
I have written my share of scary – scenes that make me sit
back when I’m done, my hands shaky. I have a vivid imagination, and because I’m
so visual, I do my best to bring that to the page. But this book had me sucking
in my breath more than once – and readers have given me feedback that proves
I’m not the only one.
When Louisa so graciously offered to host me today, she
asked this: What was the scariest moment I had while writing the book? I have
to say it was while I was barreling toward that conclusion, and knowing that it
was going to be the hardest scene I ever wrote.
Thank you, Louisa, for giving me such an interesting topic
to explore, and for having me here today.
Rest for the Wicked
By Cate Dean
Book One The Claire Wiche
Chronicles
Claire Wiche is an ordinary woman, running her Wicca shop, The Wiche’s
Broom, in an ordinary California beach town.
But Claire wasn’t always ordinary, and she isn’t quite human. She hides
a secret, and a past she thought she had put behind her.
A past that is about to explode into her present.
When it does, and everyone she loves is in danger, Claire must face up
to her past – and become what she left behind in order to save them.
Excerpt
Claire Wiche guided her unhappy customer through her shop, one arm
around the woman’s hunched shoulders.
“You know I
don’t do love spells, Mildred.”
“But I know if
he could see me, really see me, he’d fall desperately in—”
“Would it be
real, if he’s under an enchantment?”
Mildred pouted,
not a pretty sight on an eighty-year-old woman. “What happened to the customer
is always right?”
Biting her lip
on a smile, Claire walked her through the open door.
“Never been my
policy. And I have good reasons for that.” She rubbed the old woman’s arm. “You
go on home now. I’ll phone you when my new shipment of crystals shows up.”
Leaning against
the narrow porch post, Claire watched her toddle down the sidewalk, sunlight
bouncing off the thin silver poodle curls. The morning gloom had burned off
early, and it looked like the start of another beautiful day.
She crossed her
arms, cold despite the sweater she slipped on earlier. It took longer to warm
up lately, a fact she did her best to ignore.
“Are you cold
again, Claire? It’s got to be at least 80 in the store.”
Unless, of
course, a well-meaning friend shoved it in her face.
She turned
around, forced a smile. “Is it, Annie? I must have forgotten to turn it down
this morning.”
“How could you
not notice? The candles are sweating.” Annie Sullivan—the lively,
no-holds-barred friend Claire never expected to have in her life—stepped across
the small porch that ran along the front of the shop, her almost six foot
height topping Claire by a good ten inches. She caught one hand before Claire
could shove them in her pockets. “You’re like ice. Again.” She looked down at
Claire, concern in her warm brown eyes. “And you’re avoiding. Again.”
With a sigh,
Claire squeezed her hand before easing out of it. The warmth in Annie’s fingers
made her skin tingle, yearn.
“Time to turn
that heat down before the candles become a puddle.”
Annie followed
her back inside, hovering while she adjusted the thermostat to a more
reasonable temperature. She would need a heavier sweater.
“Come on,”
Annie said, hands on her hips. “Give.”
Shaking her
head, Claire smiled, a real smile this time. “Would I’m just cold and tired do
it for you?”
“Hardly.” Annie
stood in front of the counter, looking like a golden Amazon ready for battle.
“But it’ll have to until I can get you drunk and pry the truth out of you.”
Laughter burst
out of Claire. “I’d like to see that.”
“Yeah, so would
I. If you actually touched the stuff.” She gave Claire a wicked smile. “I could
always slip you a mickey.”
“You could—if I
wasn’t able to smell it from across the room.”
“Slapped down again. Hey—what if we just
tried—”
“Not again.
Never again.” Claire still felt the residual agony from her one failed attempt
at social drinking.
“How do you do
that?” Those warm brown eyes narrowed as they studied her. “How do you always
know what I’m going to say?”
Claire reached
up and patted her cheek. “I’m a witch, sweetheart. It’s what I do.”
“Wait.” She
grabbed Claire’s hand, pushed her sleeve up to reveal the bandage that peeked
out. “Is that another tattoo? What is it this time?”
Claire flushed.
The second reason she put on a sweater this morning.
“A triquetra.”
“More
protection? Jeez, Claire, the pentacle on your hip isn’t enough?”
“There is no
such thing as too much protection.” She pulled free and walked around the
counter. “And the subject is closed.”
“Okay, I can
take a hint. I’ll drop in sometime tomorrow, see if you need any help during
the festival madness.”
“That will be
most appreciated.”
Annie strode to
the door, her long legs taking her through the small shop in a few paces. She
paused in the doorway. “Hey, Claire—I’m worried, and I poke when I’m worried.
I’ll leave it alone for now. But if you don’t get better, I’ll do more than
poke.”
“Annie.” She
stuck her head back in. “Don’t you even think about taking on Mildred’s love
spell.”
Color rushed
into her cheeks.
“I wasn’t—”
“I mean it.
Last time you nearly had your victim falling in love with her cat.”
“Never gonna
let me live that one down, are you?”
Claire smiled.
“Not if it keeps you from trying again.”
Annie cursed
under her breath and stalked out.
Chuckling,
Claire made a mental note to put feelers out. Annie had more than enough power,
and just enough knowledge to make her dangerous.
Without warning
the pain stabbed her; a blade of ice in her gut.
Bracing her
hands on the counter, she fought to breathe, fought to keep herself upright.
Shaking so hard her rings clattered against the granite countertop, she gained
enough control to lower herself to the chair that she recently added, out of
necessity.
“God above—”
She pressed both arms against her stomach, prayed for a slow morning. If she
believed God would actually listen to her, after all this time, she’d ask the
single question that haunted her.
Is this how it feels to be dying?
About the Author
Cate Dean has been writing since she could hold a pen and put more than two
words together on paper. She grew up losing herself in the wilds of fantasy
worlds, and has had some of her own adventures while tromping through the UK,
and a few other parts of the world. A lover of all things supernatural, she
infuses that love into her stories, giving them a unique edge. When she’s not
writing, she loves cooking, scaring herself silly in the local cemeteries, and reading
pretty much anything she can get her hands on.
Website: Cate Dean
Twitter: @catedeanwrites
Facebook Page: Cate Dean
Writes
Hi Louisa,
ReplyDeletethank you so much for having me here.:)
~Cate
I appreciate it, Cate, and wish you the best with your release!
ReplyDelete