A.L. Knorr's Blog

Amazon A monstrous contemporary fantasy series filled with sinister magic and surprising twistsNew Release, First in Series

When Kiara is unwillingly bonded to a Demon, they must work together to save humanity.

This news shatters Kiara’s life: her boyfriend, James—childhood love and the one she was certain she’d spend forever with—is dead. Now, he wants to talk to her.

Damian, the demon now possessing James’ body, and one of the many monsters prowling amongst mostly ignorant humans, couldn’t care less about Kiara. Until she tries to kill him and he’s forced to make a contract with her to stay alive.

Her first love is now her monstrous enemy.

With Kiara and Damian begrudgingly bonded to one another, both become part of a tenuous alliance with a secret organization of monster hunters; Damian to search for who—or what—is trying to bring a cataclysmic number of monsters to their world; Kiara to fulfill her end of the contract and free herself from him.

Damian’s demonic personality might be as sharp as his teeth, but beneath his monstrous façade he’s keeping secrets. And the closer he and Kiara grow, the more Kiara learns she might be able to get James back after all. If Damian hasn’t destroyed him for good.

And if they don’t become prey to the very things they’re hunting.

Legendborn meets The Luminaries in My Dearest Monster, a monstrous contemporary fantasy filled with sinister magic, surprising twists, and a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers romance.

Amazon Other Retailers First in series, Fated mates, Hunted…Clean, and Free on all Retailers

Freedom is so close Gabby can taste it. After years of meeting single werewolves and successfully dodging the mating bullet, she’s on her way to her last Introduction to say “No, thanks” one final time. As a human, she has no plans to attach herself to a werewolf. But, she didn’t count on meeting Clay. 

With a single look, Gabby knows Clay is the one. And, unfortunately, he knows it too. The silent, ruggedly-handsome werewolf is determined to win his mate by any means necessary. Gabby does what any sane girl would do and runs. Not only does Clay follow, but something truly dangerous does as well. 

Now, hunted for the secrets she’s spent her whole life protecting, Gabby must turn to the one man she didn’t want for the help she needs. Time is running out to discover who or what wants her, and Gabby’s just starting to realize there’s more at stake than the heart and freedom of one human girl. 

Amazon The Past Has ClawsBook 2 Releases on Sept. 30

The past has claws. And she just woke it up.

Petra never asked to be connected to ancient oaths, the fallen sons of Heaven, or a sigil that won’t stop haunting her.

What starts as a search for answers turns into a race against an ancient cover-up, a missing dig team, and a dangerously charming academic who may or may not be the devil.

Some secrets are meant to stay buried.
She’s about to dig them up anyway.

If you love ancient conspiracies, fallen angel tech, and a heroine who’s just trying to do the right thing while everything falls apart—A Trespass of Angels is for you. This series blends urban fantasy pacing with supernatural thriller tension, layered with biblical lore, elemental magic, and one very loyal hacker who refuses to quit. Inspired by the apocrypha, powered by sarcasm, bad decisions, and divine fire. Perfect for fans of Cassandra Clare, Marie Lu, and readers who like their romance clean but their stakes cosmic.

You’re going to want front-row seats when the sins start surfacing.

Amazon She’s sixty years old and destined to save the worldFirst book in Crone Wars series

She’s sixty years old and destined to save the world … just as soon as she finds her reading glasses.

Divorce has already turned Claire Emerson’s tidy, predictable life upside down. So when her sixtieth birthday brings a cranky gargoyle, an annoyingly sexy wolf shifter, and an unknown magical calling, she thinks she’s losing the only thing she has left: her sanity.

Menopausal grandmothers with creaky hips don’t just randomly discover they’re next in a long line of powerful women protecting the world from dark Mages. Until those Mages attack.

Clearly, if she’s going to save the world–never mind her own life–she’ll have to learn to step into her power first. Whatever that means.

My current work-in-progress follows Petra’s story. Here’s an excerpt from book 2 of the A Trespass of Angels series, Sins of the Fallen , with the usual disclaimer that it is unedited and subject to change.  

Before dusk, there is a reshuffling of the wagons as the caravan shifts into formation for the night, making a rough circle. Petra—fighting to keep her headscarf in place—does everything that Johann asks her to do without complaint or comment. She carries water buckets for his donkey, helps him unload a crate of gear from the wagon bed, and waits patiently in the shadows while he barters a set of copper bolts with another merchant. When Johann pulls out a sack of dried lentils, a canvas bag containing tea leaves, and a couple of copper cooking pots, she sets to work building a fire and fetching water for cooking. Johann appears pleasantly surprised by this, and thanks her before going to attend to other tasks.

While the lentils stew, Petra studies the social choreography of the camp. The men sit closer to the fires, talking animatedly, sometimes arguing quite loudly. The women stay in tight knots, mostly on their feet, bent over their cooking or looking after the children. The woman in the indigo abaya sits at her fire like a queen, suspicious gaze glinting in the lantern light, coming frequently to study Petra, then shift away.

As he had watered the animals, Johann warned Petra in a low voice, “Be careful of that one. Zahra is just a merchant’s wife, but she’s no fool. They know more English than they let on. Not enough to speak properly—but enough to be opportunistic.”

Petra isn’t sure what kind of threat Zahra might pose, but she gets the point: assume you’re being watched and weighed.

Children run around the wagons or doze near their mothers. A few of the men assigned to security drift around the edge of the camp, rifles in hands, eyes turned toward the black hills as the last of the sun leaks away. The bitter tang of dung smoke drifts in the air, mingling with the heavy animal scent of the camels, goats and donkeys, but there are also pleasant hints of cardamom, anise and cumin on the breeze. Petra observes the women baking flatbread on heated stones, but if Johann has flour, he hasn’t produced any. Their lentil dinner simmers slowly next to a copper pot of tea.

“Here,” Johann says when he returns to the fire. He drops a lump of heavy fabric in Petra’s lap. “These will help you avoid unwanted attention.” A plop of sandals with leather ties follows.

Petra stands and unfolds the fabric. Holding it out by the shoulders, she discovers an abaya, dark blue, with tattered gray embroidery at the cuffs. Tucked inside the abaya is a simple cotton chemise—the sleeveless shift dress might hit Petra mid-calf.

“Thank you,” Petra says, amazed. “Where did this come from?”

“The old widow. They belonged to her daughter. She wants you to have them.” Before Petra can ask what happened to the daughter, Johann reaches for the ladle to stir the lentils; he takes a sniff at the fragrant steam rising from the pot and says, “I might see if Zahra has some butter.”

Petra looks toward the bent-backed crone where she stoops over her own dinner. The woman looks up, so Petra holds a hand up in thanks. The woman might have nodded, but then she sits down with her back to Petra. Point taken. Contact not necessary.

Taking one of Johann’s lanterns, Petra climbs inside the wagon to change, dropping the canvas awning for privacy. Standing amid the jumble of crates, trunks and tools, she kicks off the sneakers and socks and shucks the jumpsuit, keeping on the simple bra and panties she’d woken up in. She wiggles into the chemise and tugs it down. It’s quite tight across the chest, but it’ll have to do. The abaya is also a tight across the shoulders, and scratchy, but Petra is grateful for its heaviness because the air is growing cooler by the minute. By midnight there will be a strong chill and she has only seen one blanket inside Johann’s wagon, and that will be for him. By the time she steps out of the wagon, Johann is back and adding a dollop of butter to the lentils. He looks up at her outfit in approval.

“You almost look like you fit in,” he says as he lifts a spoonful of the lentils and blows off the steam.

“Almost.” She sits on a crate to do up the sandals, which are snug, but again, better than nothing. Johann’s gaze falls on the jumpsuit folded and sitting on the edge of the wagon. Curiosity sparks in his eyes.

“May I see that?”

“Sure.” Petra hands it to him.

Johann feels the fabric but quickly moves to the feature that interests him most: the zipper. He pulls a lantern closer and examines the contraption in its light. He grasps the metal tag and pulls the zipper closed all the way, then open all the way.

“They are little metal teeth,” he says in a hushed tone of wonder. “Machined. I’ve never seen such fine work. This is a genius invention, but so simple and strong. It must be new?”

“It’s called a zipper,” Petra offers, amused by his amazement. “I’ve only seen them in Canada.”

Johann looks crestfallen but impressed as he hands it back to her. “Don’t let people handle that the way you’ve let me. It will disappear faster than you can blink.” He shakes his head. “Precision like that is rare and very expensive.”

His words lodge in her mind. Expensive. Precision. Rare. She has an asset. The shoes too might be worth something to someone. She hides her modern clothing inside the wagon then returns to the fire to accept the serving of lentils Johann hands her. They eat in silence, and as Petra’s stomach grows full and warm, her attention moves to the heavens, where a vast display of celestial bodies present themselves, untouched by light pollution of any kind. The Milky Way is visible as a thick white river, and billions of stars sparkle and glow like cold pinpricks over the black horizon. She is reminded of the night she and Jesse played under the Saharan sky, the night she fell into the cave and changed forever. She is seized by an ache of longing for him that is so intense she worries she might cry. Thankful for the dark, she breathes through it.

The campfires burn low and the pressure in her bladder after dinner can’t be ignored anymore.

“I’ll be right back to wash up,” Petra tells Johann as she gets to her feet.

“Take this.” He hands her a little terracotta lamp.

Finding a hill and some thick shrubs for privacy, Petra wrestles with her abaya, and relieves herself. But as she walks back to the wagon, Zahra materializes from the shadows, as though she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Petra’s heart skips a beat, but the woman only holds out a small clay cup with a sweet smile.

“You drink,” the merchant’s wife says, her voice warm. “Good for belly.”

“Oh. Shukran,” says Petra, holding up a palm in polite refusal. “We have our own tea.”

But Zahra forces the cup into Petra’s hand. “You are… young. Lost woman?” She tilts her head, watching Petra’s face as she hunts for words. “Alone. Very dangerous for you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Petra replies, moving toward the campfire, unsure whether to insist Zahra take the cup of tea back or whether that might create hostility.

Zahra puts a hand under Petra’s elbow, tugging gently for her to stop. Her dark eyes glint. “No man. No father. No… husband?” She makes a tsking sound and smiles sympathetically. “Hard for woman. Very hard. Bad men see alone woman. Bad men take things.”

“Johann will help me.” Petra sniffs the tea and smiles, trying to sidetrack Zahra from whatever she’s after. “Smells nice.”

“The German.” Zahra sniffs in disdain. “He help you now. But later? He will want more from you. Or he will leave you.” She gives a dry snap with her fingers. “Like that.” A slow shrug. “Then more bad men.”

Petra sips the tea to give herself a moment to think. She has no desire to make an enemy of Zahra. She has to make it all the way to Haifa with this caravan.

“I help you,” Zahra says. “My family good. I have strong brothers, good husband.” She gestures toward her own wagon. “Safe. Food. Work.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe… husband for you. Later. Good man.”

Petra forces a small, polite smile. “That’s very kind, but I’ll stay with Johann.”

Zahra switches topics, gesturing to the too-small abaya and sandals. “Too small. Too short. Not good fit. Cold nights come. I have good cloth. Better. Fit you better.”

“I have no money.”

Zahra’s smile widens. “No need. No rush.” She spreads her hands in a gesture of generosity. “Sister help sister.”

A beat passes.

“Later,” the merchant’s wife adds. “Maybe you help me. Little things. Woman’s work. No hard.”

Petra wants to get away but isn’t sure how to extricate herself politely. Zahra’s culture is foreign to her.

“Annie?” Johann’s voice calls from the wagon.

Relieved, Petra dips her head at Zahra. “Thank you for your generosity, but—.”

Zahra’s face blossoms. “Good. Tomorrow, I bring you. Very fine dress. You see.”

The woman retreats silently—not hurried, not aggressive—but a little like a spider that trusts its web. Petra blows out a breath, relieved. Whatever happens tomorrow, she’ll deal with it then.

When she returns to the fire, Johann gives her a sleeping mat and tells her to put it by the wagon wheel on the inside of the protective circle. “I’ll sleep on the other side, not far away. Don’t worry. Try to sleep. You look weary. I’m sorry I have no spare blankets, but your abaya is thick. You should be fine.”

Petra settles on the mat where Johann directed, and takes a few deep breaths. She is exhausted. She takes off her sandals and tucks the abaya around her feet. Lying on her side, she props one elbow under her head for a pillow. Given that she has just time-traveled to nearly one hundred years before she was born, all in all, she has to call the day a success.

 

 

If you love ancient conspiracies, fallen angel tech, and a heroine who’s just trying to do the right thing while everything falls apart—A Trespass of Angels is for you. This series blends urban fantasy pacing with supernatural thriller tension, layered with biblical lore, elemental magic, and one very loyal hacker who refuses to quit. Inspired by the apocrypha, powered by sarcasm, bad decisions, and divine fire. Perfect for readers who like their romance clean but their stakes cosmic.

Scheduled for release September 30, 2025.

Pre-order

Amazon Other Retailers First book in a portal fantasy with just a touch of darknessClean and Free on all Retailers

Haunted by eerie visions. Guarded by a captivating stranger. Hunted by a vengeful goddess. And that’s just the start of Meghan’s troubles with the fae …

Meghan Elam has been strange her entire life. Her eyes have this odd habit of changing color and she sees and hears things no one else can. On the eve of her seventeenth birthday, the visions and voices in her head grow worse, making her believe she’s lost her mind.

Cade brings Meghan news of Eile, an enchanted Celtic realm brimming with ancient magic, a world where whispering spirits exist in the very earth, and a place where Meghan just might find the answers she has always sought.

Celtic lore blends beautifully with the modern world in this young adult, portal fantasy fae romance series with just a touch of darkness.

“I never heard him come after me and even as I climbed the slope and stumbled onto our shaded back lawn, I didn’t look back. I was either saving myself from that serial killer I always imagined lived down in the swamp, or I had finally gone over the deep end.“

My current work-in-progress follows Petra’s story. Here’s an excerpt from book 2 of the A Trespass of Angels series, Sins of the Fallen , with the usual disclaimer that it is unedited and subject to change.  It continues on from the previous excerpt.

A command cracks across the small oasis like a whip. “Ruhū ‘an tariqihā. Kara!”

The women cease arguing and the crowd parts just enough for a man to push his way through, his brow furrowed, his sleeves rolled up, a dark smudge of oil across one arm. A hammer hangs from his belt. His voice is stern, his Arabic slower than theirs as he clearly addresses the woman and the crowd, not Petra. “Hadhi al-mar’a ma’ī. Tatrukūhā.”

Doubt seeps in, voices falter. Some move away to resume their own business. A few watch Petra a little longer as the man approaches her, saying in low, accented English. 

“You’ve made quite an impression. Here.” He hands her a waterskin and she takes it with a grateful sigh.

“Thank you.” 

She squeezes the warm water into her mouth. It tastes as precious as diamonds. She feels the man studying her as she drinks, taking in her clothing, her naked hair, her shoes. When she hands back the skin, he fastens it to his belt without taking his eyes from her. 

“Walk with me.” He turns away from the well and Petra follows, nearly tripping over a small girl with a dirty face who stares up at her in open curiosity. 

“Ahlaan,” Petra says gently, greeting the child. 

In answer, the little girl lifts her hand and shows a fig she is holding. It is a little bruised and worse-for-wear, but it’s food. Petra’s mouth waters, but even more impactfully, the girl reminds Petra of Maria. For a moment, her heart aches. Then the girl shoves the fruit into Petra’s hand and scampers away, giggling.

The man hasn’t slowed down, and Petra jogs to catch up to him, smiling as she takes a bite of the fig. Sweetness explodes across her tongue, and it is amazing what the flavor does to lift her hopes. Maybe, just maybe, she won’t die here in the desert, as dried out as that mummy she unearthed in the Sahara.

The man with the hammer leads her to a wagon; the nicest one in the caravan, Petra notes. As she swallows the last of the fig, and they step into the shade, she studies her savior for the first time. He’s a man made of angles; tall but not imposing, lean and long-limbed, like he never quite finished filling out his frame. His nose, forearms, and the backs of his hands are sunburnt. He has pink-toned skin, rather than the olive of the rest of the caravan. Petra suspects that sunburnt is his daily state of life—in spite of his sagging canvas hat—never quite recovering fully from the constant bombardment of sunshine. His laugh lines look carved into his face, the result of years of squinting into the Levantine sun. His face is narrow and sharp, with a blade-straight nose and cheekbones that make him look stern, although his blue-grey eyes are kind. He has a reddish beard, but it is neatly trimmed. When he takes off his hat to wipe his brow, she sees that his hair is dark blond with a hint of copper, sun-bleached and flattened to his skull. He rubs a hand through it then opens a trunk sitting at the back of his wagon, which smells of metal, cedar shavings, and there’s a faint trace of oil. Gears and tools are strung from hooks along the inner wall of his wagon. A half-dismantled oil lamp sits on a tarp. 

He rifles through his trunk and pulls out a small wooden box with a metal clasp. He opens it, and inside are folded bits of fabric of all types and prints. He rifles through them and pulls out a folded swatch of something thin, and gunmetal grey. He hands it to her.

“You’d better cover your hair. They think you’re a demon.” His lips twitch. “Or worse, a tax collector.”

Petra thanks him—torn between laughter and tears at being pegged as a demon—and loosely swathes her head in the fabric, tossing the end over one shoulder like a forties movie star. She has no idea how to tie it the way the other ladies do. 

“You’re a mechanic,” she says, gesturing to the equipment. “What do you fix?”

“Mostly engines, but really, anything and everything. Why do you think I stepped in on your behalf?” He looks at her feet, her jumpsuit. “You’re not from here, that’s obvious. You speak English, but you don’t sound British, and not quite American either.”

He waits a beat for Petra to fill in some details.

She takes a breath, her mind racing. “I’m… Canadian.”

She can tell by his expression that he’s heard of it. So… she is post-1867 Dominion formation, she knows that much now. How else can she learn what year it is without alarming him completely?

“What is your name?” she asks.

“You first,” he replies with a half-smile, his gentle gaze probing.

“I’m Annie,” she says softly, making a calculated decision to extend her hand, something that was probably not done in this time—whenever this is—but that will tell her something of him. She needs an ally, and needs to know if he could be that for her.

He blinks at her, hesitating, then looks at her outstretched hand for a beat too long. She can’t read his mind, but his expression says enough; he is trying to calculate whether making physical contact with her is foolish or necessary. She likes that he doesn’t glance around to see who is watching. He is a man who doesn’t overly care what others think. That could be helpful. Still, while his eyes are not hostile, neither are they trusting. He seems more curious than anything else. When he takes her hand. she allows a small smile to reach her face, relieved.

“Johann Meiers,” he says, releasing her hand quickly after a simple pump with dry, calloused fingers. He pulls a crate out of the back of his wagon and sets in on the ground. “Sit, Fräulin Annie.”

There’s a buzz of voices at the well, casual talk, relaxed sounding. Petra still gets the odd glance, but the caravan is back to the business of their everyday life. The canvas door over the rear of Johann’s wagon flaps in a gentle breeze as he pulls out another crate and a lumpy fabric sack. He sits down beside her then opens the sack and offers her the dates that are inside. She takes one, thanking him.

“What are you doing out here in the wilderness?” 

She takes a bite of the date, slowly, to give herself time to think. It’s better if she presents as an orphan—which is true to life—but still someone with family, so she is less vulnerable. 

“I came east with my… uncle,” she says, inventing as she goes. “He’s—” she exhales, letting a tremor enter her voice, “—an archaeologist. Holy sites. There were some… dangerous nomads. We became separated, and unfortunately, I got lost.” She puts a hitch in her throat and covers her mouth with her hand, leaving her story there. Let him assume she’s an emotional female, then maybe he’ll be too polite to pry, but empathetic enough to help.

Johann weighs her words, looking as though he’s not sure he should believe her. “You don’t speak Arabic well.”

“That’s true,” she says with a regretful sigh. “I’ve only studied phrases. I was never meant to be anywhere on my own.”

“Yet, here you are. On foot. No caravan, no guide, no proper clothing. Not even any water skin. You have no idea which direction your party might have gone?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve gotten utterly turned around, I’m afraid.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them. He shifts, his eyes narrowing on her getup again. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh.” Petra looks down at herself, faking a realization, as though it never occurred to her that someone might find her clothing odd. “My uncle had these shoes and this one-piece suit made for me. He has some odd ideas, but they are practical. He has never cared for propriety. These are easier for traveling, easier to clean, easier to do my dig duties than in a robe or a dress. The shoes were made in Canada. They must look very strange to your eyes, but a lot of people wear them there. They are good for walking, and quite comfortable.”

Johann exhales through his nose as she pops the rest of her date in her mouth, keeping her expression innocent. 

There’s a break in the conversation while he absorbs her story, still not sure whether she’s trustworthy. Petra’s mind goes like a computer, sifting through what she knows about major events that occurred post 1867 in the middle east. Johann is going to start asking questions, but it’s better if she asks hers first and keeps him distracted. She needs to figure out when she is, and where. 

He rubs a thumb across his jaw, his beard rasping. “You’re lucky you found us, and you’re even luckier that I speak English.”

“Yes. Very lucky,” she agrees. She swallows and takes another date from the sack he holds between them. “Where is the caravan headed, Johann?” 

“Haifa,” he says, then adds, “We’ll arrive tomorrow evening, if the wheels hold.”

Haifa. The clothes, the rifles, the language, Johann himself—a German colonist, she presumes. The camels. She catalogues the details, catching them like falling drops of rain. Ottoman Haifa. She is in Palestine. Way before Israel becomes a nation in 1948. Her heart beats faster. But how much before? She has to be careful. She can’t just ask him what year it is. The last thing she needs is to end up in an asylum.

“In Haifa,” she says slowly, “—is there someone I might get help from? A place I can go for aid?” She watches him closely. Every word matters. 

“Aid?” He scoffs. “There’s the Ottoman officials, if you want worse trouble than you’re already in. We Germans have a colony there. And there are some mission schools where you’ll find some British English. You’ll be more likely to find a sympathetic ear there. Your father was digging, you said?”

“Not yet. We were in the research phase still, there was no determined location. I was… just assisting. How far is the German colony from the port?” she asks, feigning mild curiosity but hanging on his every word, every twitch in his face.

“Not far. Why?”

“I think my uncle may have colleagues in Haifa… I might inquire there.” She clears her throat, latching onto something that she remembers about the German Templars. “When was your colony founded?”

He waves a hand. “Decades ago. Before my time. Some sixty years now, more or less.”

She nods. She’s pretty sure the Templars settled in Haifa around 1870, but she needs more. She sifts through the history she can remember, grasping at events, factoids, dates, key developments in the region.

“We arrived by ship,” she says, “but I hear the railways here are expanding very quickly.”

Johann nods with something like pride sparking in his eyes. “The branch just reached Haifa this year. The Germans helped design some of it, of course.”

This year… but what year did the Hejaz Railway reach Haifa? Surely it was after 1900. Sultan Abdulhamid II initiated a number of reforms during the time the railway was being built—especially over Arab provinces. Things like improved transportation and communication, water sanitation, basic health services, and funding language schools.

“And the Sultan?” Petra pries, “His reforms must have made your work easier?”

Johann snorts, but like a man who is on the edge of settling into conversation with a crony. “If you call new taxes and conscription easier. But yes, it’s quieter than before.”

It’s quiet. The railway has reached Haifa, and she’s not landed during the Great War, so she’s definitely pre-1914. Nor is she after the Young Turks; a revolutionary movement inside the Ottoman Empire, staged in 1908. The region is stable, for now.

“That’s good to hear. My father was worried when we left, with all the talk of Russian tensions.”

“Not here. The Russians are fighting the Japanese now, farther east.”

She nods, making more calculations. The Russo-Japanese war is at play. That narrows it down considerably. She’s landed either in 1904 or 1905, but… pieces, that’s all she has to work with. Shards, fleeting references. She searches for a way to narrow it even further, but fails to form a question that would reveal more. She is in a world on the edge of a sharp collapse, but it is not yet broken. The Ottoman Empire is still in place, before the Mandate, before the wars. Before the maps redraw themselves in blood and oil. Her skin flushes with gooseflesh in spite of the heat. This world doesn’t know what is coming. Her breath slows, her pulse tightens into a steady drumbeat behind her ribs. She thinks about Alistair Graves. His grandfather found the Watcher Stele in 1903. If that was accurate, it has already been discovered, maybe even already shipped to Britain. Graves also claimed that the group who thought they’d discovered Enoch’s vault were lost in an earthquake in 1906. She looks away from Johann, across the rolling hills of rock and scrub. She doesn’t want him to see the excitement and turmoil that has sparked inside her. She has landed after the discovery of the Watcher Stele, but before the earthquake of 1906. She rubs her lips with the back of her hand to cover whatever expression her mouth is making, she might even feel a smile.

This is no coincidence. She chose this time and place. Subconsciously, yes, but she chose it. She has landed exactly where and when she needs to be in order to continue her mission. No more dusty texts or creeping through the security systems of ancient, super-secure libraries in sandstorm form. No more Jesse, either, but that must be, for now. She will find a way back to him. She has no idea how, but she will. Right now, she is in the era relevant to her own history, in the flesh. She is exactly where she needs to be, but she also faces the greatest challenge she’s ever faced. No powers. No Jesse. No allies. Johann can get her to Haifa—assuming he’ll let her tag along out of pity—but after that she’ll be on her own. She has her wits and nothing else, but she is alive, breathing, and has an opportunity; not only to save a dig team from certain destruction, but—if she plays her hand perfectly—to be with them when they discover the very place that is meant to hold the Pillars of Lamech. Her objective solidifies: find the dig team, use any means necessary to join them, find the pillars, take a rubbing of their markings, then get out of that site and get everyone else out too, before it implodes. She has no idea the name of the man leading the Palestinian dig team, all she has is what Alistair told her back in his cottage in present-day Wheatley.

“What did you say your uncle’s name was?” Johann interrupts her thoughts as he takes a bite of a date.

She looks at him, hearing the voices rise and fall behind them like waves as she makes a split-second decision. 

“Graves,” she says. “My uncle is William Graves.”

 

 

If you love ancient conspiracies, fallen angel tech, and a heroine who’s just trying to do the right thing while everything falls apart—A Trespass of Angels is for you. This series blends urban fantasy pacing with supernatural thriller tension, layered with biblical lore, elemental magic, and one very loyal hacker who refuses to quit. Inspired by the apocrypha, powered by sarcasm, bad decisions, and divine fire. Perfect for readers who like their romance clean but their stakes cosmic.

Scheduled for release September 30, 2025.

Pre-order

My current work-in-progress follows Petra’s story. Here’s an excerpt from book 2 of the A Trespass of Angels series, Sins of the Fallen , with the usual disclaimer that it is unedited and subject to change.  

The hills are steep, dry, and sun-struck, studded with prickly shrubs and scattered boulders, like the bones of some ancient leviathan. Petra crouches behind a shrub, studying the caravan. She’s been following them for an hour, trying to strategize how to approach these strangers.

The fabric of her jumpsuit is streaked with dust. Patches of sweat has turned the olive green nearly black at the armpits. Her hair is stuck to her brow, her lips are dry, her throat parched. She needs water.

From her vantage point, the valley lays open before her—amber dirt curling into a trail, and on it, the slow-moving snake of a caravan.

She has counted at least thirty people. Eight wagons, ten pack animals. The sound of hooves and bells drift up to her, softened by heat shimmer. A child cries. It’s a family group, or a group of families—hard to tell at this distance, but Petra thinks that the male figures aren’t all dressed like they’re from the same class. She’s studied their rhythm—a pulse of motion, then a pause as someone adjusts a strap, looses the load from a donkey, or dismounts to offer a ride to a weary companion. A woman in indigo robes hands out food from a basket at her hip. A boy chases a chicken that must have escaped from a wagon.

Petra has been keeping above them, staying downwind. Waiting for an opportunity, and for her nerve to kick in. What are the odds that one of them speaks English? She has a little Arabic, a little French, but is nowhere near fluent in either language.

A change whispers over the caravan, some subtle development. The lead riders gesture to the ones behind, and a murmur of conversation drifts up to Petra. Then she sees the reason for their shift in energy: a cluster of date palms ahead, circling a stone cistern and offering a patch of shade. The caravan begins to fan outward, a flock breaking formation. If she’s not mistaken, there are a few groans of relief from the animals.

Now is her moment. She needs to approach them at the watering hole, when burdens are lifted, tempers cooled and thirst slaked. She wipes her palms on her thighs and moves through the brush. Look thirsty Pet, not dangerous. Hands out, show them you’re unarmed. Make eye contact, but look meek and gentle, and a little desperate… that won’t be hard. You’ve seen Lawrence of Arabia like three times. No sudden moves. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be proud, and you might get a drink and some information, instead of shot.

She wishes she had different clothes—her jumpsuit is a neon sign that screams oddity, stitched by a god with a dry sense of humor—a hair covering, shoes that are less shiny and white. She considers taking off her sneakers and hiding them inside her jumpsuit, but the rocks are sharp, and a suspicious bulge would probably be more dangerous than the shoes. She descends, slowly, sidestepping over the steeper bits. Every few steps she pauses to observe the group. They’re still unaware of her.

A man wrapped in a faded keffiyeh and a dust-coloured burnous crouches near the edge of the palm shade, putting his back against a tree and laying his rifle across his knee. His skin is dark, sun-scoured; his mouth a hard line. He sees Petra first, and stands quickly, hands gripping his rifle as he squints at her. She’s thankful he keeps the barrel pointed toward the sand.

Children squeal next, and a woman by the cistern drops her water jug in surprise.

“Wahad! Shufuha!” one of the children screams.

Arabic then.

“Salaam,” Petra calls, moving forward. Her hands lift a little, palms out. “Ana… urged man’ … min fadlikum.”

More adults approach the cistern, putting the children behind them, though small faces peek from between legs and around hips. There are bursts of Arabic from the group.

The woman in the indigo abaya is there, square-hipped, short and sturdy. Her robe is dusty, but her scarf is tight and spotless, wrapped like a crown around her head. She reaches boldly for Petra’s sleeve, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger as though to convince herself that Petra is real, and so is the sturdy fabric she wears. The fabric is hard, the texture, stitchwork, the strange gleam of synthetic thread—it makes no sense to her. The woman’s eyes—dark as dried figs, sharp and observant—and colder than Petra would like, missing nothing—drop to Petra’s sneakers and widen a fraction, then whip back to her face, laden with suspicion.

“Ayn zawjuki? Ayn waliyuki?”

Another woman approaches, this one is older, her spine is as curved as a question mark, her face is seamed with age. Her gaze is kind, pitying. She holds a ladle filled with water out with soft, parchment hands. Petra reaches for it.

“Shukran,” she whispers.

But as Petra’s fingers brush the handle, the woman in the indigo robe knocks away the ladle with some sharp Arabic. The water splashes onto the older woman and into the dust with a hiss. The older woman tsks in disgust at the indigo lady and a high-pitched argument ensues. The crowd presses in. Petra’s throat closes as anxiety and discontent moves across their faces. She takes a step back, then another.

 

 

If you love ancient conspiracies, fallen angel tech, and a heroine who’s just trying to do the right thing while everything falls apart—A Trespass of Angels is for you. This series blends urban fantasy pacing with supernatural thriller tension, layered with biblical lore, elemental magic, and one very loyal hacker who refuses to quit. Inspired by the apocrypha, powered by sarcasm, bad decisions, and divine fire. Perfect for readers who like their romance clean but their stakes cosmic.

Scheduled for release September 30, 2025.

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Amazon Author Direct Greek Mythology meets the modern worldEntire Series on Sale

Is it love or addiction?

As seventeen-year-old Gertie, from New York, uncovers the unfathomable secrets of the ancient city of Athens, she becomes involved with a handsome vampire. Is it love that attracts her, or the temporary powers from his bite? She’s more confused when her heart is drawn to the vampire’s enemy—a demigod sworn to protect the city.

Fans of Twilight will enjoy the complicated love triangle that develops… until she becomes a catalyst to war.

Amazon Other Retailers A Unique Horse-Shifter RomanceClean and Free to Download Until July 13

Kristiana Liepa was supposed to use the money to save her family farm. She was NOT supposed to spend it all to save a massive, black stallion.

But when she saw how he was being treated, what’s a vet to do?

She had no idea that gorgeous beast was really a powerful (and morally gray) magician who had been cursed by a witch, or that she was the only one who could reverse the curse.

And she couldn’t possibly have known how that one rash decision would irrevocably change her life. . . and his.

Need a little more information to make up your mind? Here’s a longer book description:

Kristiana’s father has a gambling problem. After a particularly bad hand of cards puts their family’s land in jeopardy, her dad’s solution is to call her billionaire ex. But Kris can’t bring herself to beg him for money. At least, not her first time seeing him in ten years. Instead, she withdraws her life savings and bets on herself.

Thankfully, it pays off! She and her most promising horse win big at the Down Royal steeplechase in Ireland, but only because the best horse on the track wasn’t ridden properly. Luckily, it’s just enough to grant a stay of execution with the bank. Or it would be. . .

But when Kris realizes her nemesis is abusing the gorgeous black stallion who should have won, she can’t help herself. She spends her winnings buying the horse she fell for the moment she saw him. It may not be the smartest move in the short run, but Obsidian Devil’s her best hope of finally digging out from under the massive debt hanging over them. She’ll have to ask her ex to help with the next payment, but seeing him again won’t be so bad.

What Kris doesn’t know is that her new purchase is actually a powerful magician, stuck in horse form by a witch’s curse. She also has no idea that she’ll be the only person who can help him lift the curse. . . And worst of all, that helping him may mean losing the family farm for good.