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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