Wednesday, October 19, 2016

What is this? This is a restaurant on top of a mountain in Salzburg, Austria. The reason it's up here is because I think of this when I spent my time creating a scene for LEGACY OF DANGER. Elena was in Romania, but this could easily have moved from Austria to Romania with an addition of the Sandor Inn's traditional Romanian flags and other cheerful Transylvanian facts scattered around the inn's lobby.

LEGACY OF DANGER is on and is available in print and on Kindle.

NOTE: My website is down. It started out on Yahoo (site builder) then I switched over the Wix, but still had to you through Yahoo to publish the site. Now, it appears Yahoo is no longer operating in this capacity. (I may be wrong) I will be re-doing (love that word) a website in the near future, but we still have our blogspot.  (don't even both to try the link)

Now, I'm writing an interview with my Legacy characters for a guest blog.


Sunday, October 16, 2016


So, what is the symbol of the silver cross in Legacy of Danger? 

This story dates back from the 14th century, when Vlad Tepes ruled Walachia and most of Transylvania. (remember Bram Stoker's Dracula?) At least, he alternated that rule with the Turks. The Turks had the cross and during the wars in the 1300's the Boyard princes stole it back. The silver cross was encrusted with rubies, diamonds, emeralds and sapphires-jewels of the most precious kind. The rubies came from Burma, where the most highly prized gems came from. The Boyards called themselves "The League of the Silver Cross."  In the beginning, Prince Vlad was popular among the people, but he became so cruel and later insane that they had to do something. It is rumored he was killed by his own men in one of the Romanian-Turk wars in the 1400's. The silver cross remained in the Dkany Monastery until an earthquake in the 1500's destroyed it--rumor. 

You'll find out about that and more while reading the book. 

Is this true? Much of it is. The League of the Silver Cross is Elena and her family's history. That is fiction based on truth. Vlad Tepes' history is pretty much true. 

Sunday, October 16, 2016


Chapter One

Evanston, Illinois
"I was murdered."
The voice whispered through rustling trees. Startled, Elena Dkany looked around for the source. Nothing. No voice except the priest praying over her grandmother’s coffin. In ninety-degree weather, goose bumps popped out on her arms. Hearing non-existent voices was not a good thing. She shook the cobwebs from her brain. Must be imagining things, a result from the long tragic week.

Briar Hill College’s faculty and staff stood close by under the shade of the oak trees. They’d abandoned their classes to pay tribute to the widow of the man who’d been their president for decades.

As the coffin disappeared into the ground, a vapor materialized into a solid shape by her side and the scent of roses permeated Elena's immediate space. Its perfume overpowered the pines and moldy earth, but no rose bushes grew in the small cemetery. Roses where there was no rose garden. This is not happening.

But it was. Her grandmother stood by her side as though she’d never died—-like they were attending somebody else’s funeral. And nobody else seemed to notice. No startled looks, no wide-eyes, or 'oh my God's.'
The ghost of Magda Dkany spoke. "You must find your son." Was it a voice or the wisp of wind that sounded like a murmur or a sigh?

My son? But, he died nine years ago before he’d even been a month old.
Elena focused on her apparition. It appeared like she’d looked only two days ago.
"Murdered. Your danger. Your son in danger. Find Alexander."

Her heart pounded fast enough without hearing her life might be in danger, or the name Alexander Brancusi. Not exactly someone she wanted to hear about. Overhead sea gulls squawked. A light wind blew in from Lake Michigan, dropping the temperature. Elena froze, but her chill didn’t come from the air. She turned too fast to the dematerializing ghost. "You're dead. You can’t talk to me."
But the ghost's presence continued to thin. The voice softened. "Go to Dkany. Find your son." Now she was hardly an outline. Then, just air.

"No. Please, don’t go. Why are you saying this?"

The scent of roses dissipated.

"Why do you have to leave?"

The onlookers across the coffin began to look at her with puzzled expressions. Worried looks crossed their faces.

Magda’s presence knocked Elena off balance. She scrambled to keep from toppling onto the casket halfway down into the earth. A man with musky aftershave replaced Magda's image and caught Elena's arm.

Outside the cemetery, a car horn honked, kids cheered from the little league field across the street, and somewhere a dog howled.

Father Christofides, the American-Romanian Orthodox priest who’d baptized Elena, appeared strange and intimidating. A huge crucifix hung around his neck like an ominous albatross of death. Everything moved in slow motion, a surrealistic emptiness of space and time. "Eternal your memory, Magda, our sister, worthy of blessedness and ever-remembered."

With his words, the ceremony ended.

Elena turned to thank the man, but her friend Marina Brancusi now held her. She didn't know when Marina and the stranger changed places.



Saturday, October 15, 2016


So many changes in so short period of time

Wow, so many changes in so short period of time.

My website ( has disappeared off the face of the earth. Sigh. Theis blog was hard to get onto. Finally, (as you can see) I made it.

My book is published and out and about on I'm thrilled with it, the covers the formatting, editing, everything. Grateful to Linda Daly, (LSPDigital) my publisher.

So that's a shout - out.

Cheers and happy Sat evening.


Wednesday, October 12, 2016

"I was murdered."
The voice whispered through rustling trees. Startled, Elena Dkany looked around for the source. Nothing. No voice except the priest praying over her grandmother's coffin. In ninety-degree weather, goose bumps popped out on her arms. Hearing non-existent voices was not a good thing. She shook the cobwebs from her brain. Must be imagining things, a result from the long tragic week.

And so begins the adventures, dangers and tragedies Elena Dkany faces that take her from Evanston, Illinois to Amsterdam and on to Romania and the Carpathian Mountains. Beautiful scenery. Chaos and tragedy with some help from her deceased husband and her ex-boyfriend, Alexander Brancusi, a man she had no desire to see again.

You can find Legacy of Danger, published by LSP Digital on in print and Kindle.
I hope you enjoy this tale of abandoned castle, damsel in distress, international hitmen, ghosts,  a boy in a dream and an ex-boyfriend from a long time ago. If you enjoy this story, please leave a review in the Amazon Book Review section.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Rave Review Book Clubs "A Perilous Thirst" by Rhani D'Chae

#RRBCBooksDownLow A Perilous Thirst on Amazon Kindle by Author @rhanidchae #RRBC@RRBC_RWISA
Congratulations to Rhani for winning #Pushtuesday from Rave Review Book Club.
A short story about a gay vampire in the early days of the AIDS epidemic.

You might want to check this out. 

Monday, September 12, 2016

Inexpensive Promotions

I thought you might be interested in this article about inexpensive promotions.

Sharing with Writers and Readers: L. Diane Wolf Shares Her Ideas for Promotional Swa...

Sharing with Writers and Readers: L. Diane Wolf Shares Her Ideas for Promotional Swa...: Though the second edition of my multi award-winning #TheFrugalBookPromoter ( ) has a whole section on promoti... Add element

Saturday, September 10, 2016

A City Wounded Rises Stronger by Micki Peluso a Native New Yorker

                   Micki Peluso

On this third anniversary of 911, our nation is not nearly recovered.  That horror is forever etched deep into the soul of America. New York City, home of The World Trade Center, bares a gaping hole in its spectacular skyline, as if its two front teeth were knocked out. Buildings can be replaced. Innocents incinerated in an instant leaving no trace of their humanity to be buried, cannot.  
We are angry.
New Yorkers mourn, observing that famous panoramic view, remembering the loss of loved ones who perished.  Our pain does not subside, scars do not heal.  Our sorrow knows no comfort, nor ever will.
One must endure the unthinkable to fully comprehend. In a city of millions, all have either lost loved ones or know someone who has.  Our pain is ever present.  Our rage knows no rest.
New Yorkers are unique, in that we face crime and threats to our safety on a daily basis.  Yet, 9/11 stunned us. 

How dare terrorists use our own planes to attack us on our own territory?  It makes us vulnerable.  It also makes us irate, jolting us to a new awareness, shaking our complacency and replacing it with resolve.  Never again will we be caught unawares.
Tales of honor are printed, televised and recited, feats of untold bravery . . . to what avail?  Terrorism faces us daily, hovering like a dark evil disrupting our lives. We will never again feel truly safe.
A recent article in a New York newspaper has exposed the truth of the toxins spread over the city.  According to an EPA worker, we were lied to concerning the true dangers. Our losses on that infamous day could have reached 50,000 casualties.  In truth, the loss of life was approximately 3000.  Yet, in years to come, the toxic debris of mercury, asbestos and other carcinogens may well reach, or surpass that 50,000 number. 
Already, many citizens including FDNY, NYPD and all those initially exposed are being diagnosed with asbestos and toxin related cancers.  Many more New Yorkers may be infected.  For, as crow flies, the toxins from Ground Zero blew across all five boroughs of New York and parts of New Jersey.
May God grant us the fortitude to vanquish the hatred feeding the bloodlust of the terrorists and the grace to forgive these hellish creatures bent on fanatical hatred and destruction. 
We are New Yorkers. Our city has been assaulted and our loved ones’ ashes mingle with the twin towers imploded into nothingness. We mourn, but we will not be taken unaware ever again.

We are a city wounded, but these wounds have only made us stronger.  Terrorists must face the repercussions of their diabolical acts.  Vengeance, while not sweet, must be swift and terrible, so that our people will not have died in vain.
Like the legendary Phoenix, the ashes of The World Trade Center will rise to forever destroy its adversaries.
      It is now 9/11/2016. We honor the memory of the ones lost so many years ago. The 9/11 Memorial stands tall displaying respect for those we loved and lost. Surely now we are safe. In the years following the horrendous massacre, we have half-heartedly chased down Osama Bin Laden, eventually killing him. We have lost thousands of service people fighting terrorism in Irag, Afghanistan, Syria and other trouble spots where Islamic terrorists continue their slaughter in the name of Allah.
      While not all Muslims are terrorists the majority of terrorists are followers Islam, exacerbated by the radicalized citizens of other countries twisted by the lust of slaughter for various reasons, religion being primary. Each time we have a chance to stamp out terrorism for good, the government pulls back before the job is complete.
     On this day of sadness and memorials, we exist in a state of worldwide terrorism, led by Isis and other radical terrorist groups as they march steadily across Europe, Africa, Australia, the United States by infiltrating their populations in numbers that when called to worldwide Jihad have the capacity to inflict murderous dominance. Just like France, Belgium, the UK and other places around the world, the horror continues. Hundreds continue to be brutally murdered, gunned down, mowed down by trucks, and blown to nothingness by explosives. What happened to our sworn slogan—Never Forget?
     We watch with shameful complacency as children around the world are beheaded in front of their parents, women are victimized by hideous assaults to their bodies under
Sharia law, even while living in our free country. Outbreaks of terrorist attacks occur worldwide on a daily basis. And what do we do? Nothing...a pitiful broken promise to the almost 3000 innocent men, women and children who were slaughtered through no fault of their own. People we promised not to let die in vain. Shame upon us all.  

The Uneaten Meal -- about 9-11 by Micki Peluso

This is a part fiction, part true story of one of the most horrific days in our history. All the facts surrounding that day are true --I lived it. The fictional part examines what might have gone on in the mind of one of the victims during his last minutes of life.

The Uneaten Meal
Micki Peluso
            The watch hanging from Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake, sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt. 
            Ian had worked the kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the 104th floor below the restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the 106th floor was catering a breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one guests.
            Ian was preparing for the lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.
            As customers rose to go to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the dining room was set up for the lunch rush.
            Ian had Chef Mike’s creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.
Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107th floor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated. 
People on other floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were trapped. There was no way down.  Many ran up the staircases to the top 111th floor and climbed onto the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people alive make it to the roof.   Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building, rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them. 
            As he jumped, his thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen, maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their loved ones.
            911 operators, unaware of the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to escape the building.
            New York City responded at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already dead.
            The second tower imploded almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize that they were dead.
            The shock waves of horror extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country, impacted the world.  America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian wept.
            The Chef’s new entrée in the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor.   There would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.
            Ian glanced through the rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed.   If that day arrived, it would signify healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.
            Ian turned to see a horde of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.
Seventy-three employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.
Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building. However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the terrorist

The Cottage of Blog--Patricia A. Guthrie--romantic suspense writer: Still Plugging Away At My Blog. Here's the Latest News.

The Cottage of Blog--Patricia A. Guthrie--romantic suspense writer: Still Plugging Away At My Blog. Here's the Latest News.Updated blog: Add element

Still Plugging Away At My Blog. Here's the Latest News.

So much has happened in the past two months. 

I appeared on Rave Review Book Clubs Blog Spot Radio. Marlena Smith interviewed me about "Waterlilies Over My Grave" and that was a fun topic for me. We went over my background, my books, how I started writing and other good stuff. If you go on to Twitter and #RRBC you'll find Marlena Smith's Radio Blog. Every other Saturday she features a new author at 12 CST. You might enjoy this, if you like discovering new authors. 

Micki Peluso, who's memoir "And the Whippoorwill Sang" caused quite a stir among a select audience, has written and had published her children's book "The Cat Who Wanted A Dog." Adorable toddlers coloring book. Thanks to Neva Franks for the illustrations and Linda Daly for the book cover. 

My new book "Legacy of Danger" should be coming out this fall. Wish it would fall around Halloween, but, it might be a bit later. So much has happened this summer. I'll be promoting and giving hints to its story as I continue with Facebook, Twitter, Linked In and my blog. (I'm awful at continuing my blogs.) 

Some new problems have arisen with Amazon. Books are being "sold" for free through the Amazon Premium. I sold 500 books and received little for my efforts. They all came from Kindle. Most were from Kindle Memberships and Kindle Prime. I still don't understand. Maybe somebody can explain how this works to me. 

Meanwhile, I have a full day of marketing, editing for a friend and checking out an old story that I might continue and send to my publisher. A horse story. 

You all take care. Please let me know you were here. I need to find out how people can buy my book directly from my website ( or my blog. 


Patricia A. Guthrie 

Saturday, July 23, 2016


Welcome to The Cottage of Blog: 

Today, I am PROUD to hostess Rave Review Book Club's Author, Lincoln Cole, who is promoting his book "Raven's Peak." Read the synopsis and the excerpt. What a great choice for a hot summer evening's read! If you're interested in purchasing this exciting horror story, you can check out the links at the bottom, where you'll find his links. 

Please leave comments in the comment section under the post. I'm sure Mr. Cole would appreciate it, and I certainly will.  


A quiet little mountain town is hiding a big problem. When the townsfolk of Raven's Peak start acting crazy, Abigail Dressler is called upon to find out what is happening. She uncovers a demonic threat unlike any she's ever faced and finds herself in a fight just to stay alive. 

She rescues Haatim Arison from a terrifying fate and discovers that he has a family legacy in the supernatural that he knows nothing about. Now she's forced to protect him, which is easy, and also trust him if she wants to save the townsfolk of Raven's Peak. Trust, however, is considerably more difficult for someone who grew up living on the knife's edge of danger. 

Can they discover the cause of the town's insanity and put a stop to it before it is too late?


“Reverend, you have a visitor.”
He couldn’t remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. He remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put him in this cell; those memories were vague, though, like reflections in a dusty mirror.
“Open D4.”
A buzz as the door slid open, inconsequential. The aching need was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered. It was a primal desire: a longing for the tingly rush of adrenaline each time the lash licked his flesh. The blood dripping down his parched skin fulfilled him like biting into a juicy strawberry on a warm summer’s day. 
“Some woman. Says she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is Frieda.”
A pause, the lash hovering in the air like a poised snake. The Reverend remembered that name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to pull himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill slog through knee-deep mud to reclaim those memories.
It was always difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he managed to cling to was the name. Frieda. It was the name of an angel, he knew. . . or perhaps a devil.
One and the same when all was said and done.
She belonged to a past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual reclaimed him, embraced him with its fiery need. His memories were nothing compared to the whip in his hand, its nine tails gracing his flesh.
The lash struck down on his left shoulder blade, scattering droplets of blood against the wall behind him. Those droplets would stain the granite for months, he knew, before finally fading away. He clenched his teeth in a feral grin as the whip landed with a sickening, wet slapping sound.
“Jesus,” a new voice whispered from the doorway. “Does he always do that?”
“Every morning.”
“You’ll cuff him?”
“Why? Are you scared?”
The Reverend raised the lash into the air, poised for another strike.
“Just…man, you said he was crazy…but this…”
The lash came down, lapping at his back and the tender muscles hidden there. He let out a groan of mixed agony and pleasure.
These men were meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless drone. He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They weren’t worth his time.
“I think we can spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a month in the hospital.”
“Regulation says we have to.”
“Then you do it.”
The guards fell silent. The cat-o’-nine-tails, his friend, his love, became the only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He took a rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again. More blood. More agony. More pleasure.
“I don’t think we need to cuff him,” the second guard decided.
“Good idea. Besides, the Reverend isn’t going to cause us any trouble. He only hurts himself. Right, Reverend?”
The air tasted of copper, sickly sweet. He wished he could see his back and the scars, but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he had when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They were afraid he would kill himself.
How ironic was that?
“Right, Reverend?”
Mirrors were dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the other side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back, threatening to steal pieces of the soul away forever.
“Reverend? Can you hear me?”
The guard reached out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted before anyone could possibly understand what was happening.
Suddenly the Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at an uncomfortable angle by the Reverend’s iron grip.
The lash hung in the air, ready to strike at its new prey.
The Reverend looked curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He recognized him as one of the first guardsmen he’d ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European chap with a wife and two young children. A little overweight and balding, but well-intentioned.
Most of him didn’t want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of them could even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would shatter the bone; the sound as it snapped would be . . .  
A symphony rivaling Tchaikovsky.
The second guard—the younger one that smelled of fear—stumbled back, struggling to draw his gun.
“No! No, don’t!”
That from the first, on his knees as if praying. The Reverend wondered if he prayed at night with his family before heading to bed. Doubtless, he prayed that he would make it home safely from work and that one of the inmates wouldn’t rip his throat out or gouge out his eyes. Right now, he was waving his free hand at his partner to get his attention, to stop him.
The younger guard finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His hands were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”
“Don’t shoot, Ed!”
“Let him go!”
The older guard, pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”
The look that crossed his young partner’s face in that moment was precious: primal fear. It was an expression the Reverend had seen many times in his life, and he understood the thoughts going through the man’s mind: he couldn’t imagine how he might die in this cell, but he believed he could. That belief stemmed from something deeper than what his eyes could see. A terror so profound it beggared reality.
An immutable silence hung in the air. Both guards twitched and shifted, one in pain and the other in terror. The Reverend was immovable, a statue in his sanctuary, eyes boring into the man’s soul.
“Don’t shoot,” the guard on his knees murmured. “You’ll miss, and we’ll be dead.”
“I have a clear shot. I can’t miss.”
This time, the response was weaker. “We’ll still be dead.”
A hesitation. The guard lowered his gun in confused fear, pointing it at the floor. The Reverend curled his lips and released, freeing the kneeling guard.
The man rubbed his shoulder and climbed shakily to his feet. He backed away from the Reverend and stood beside the other, red-faced and panting.
“I heard you,” the Reverend said. The words were hard to come by; he’d rarely spoken these last five years. 
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” the guard replied meekly. “My mistake.”
“Bring me to Frieda,” he whispered.
“You don’t—” the younger guard began. A sharp look from his companion silenced him.
“Right away, sir.”
“Steve, we should cuff…”
Steve ignored him, turning and stepping outside the cell. The Reverend looked longingly at the lash in his hand before dropping it onto his hard bed. His cultivated pain had faded to a dull ache. He would need to begin anew when he returned, restart the cleansing.
There was always more to cleanse.
They traveled through the black-site prison deep below the earth’s surface, past neglected cells and through rough cut stone. A few of the rusty cages held prisoners, but most stood empty and silent. These prisoners were relics of a forgotten time, most of whom couldn’t even remember the misdeed that had brought them here.
The Reverend remembered his misdeeds. Every day he thought of the pain and terror he had inflicted, and every day he prayed it would wash away.
They were deep within the earth, but not enough to benefit from the world’s core heat. It was kept unnaturally cold as well to keep the prisoners docile. That meant there were only a few lights and frigid temperatures. Last winter he thought he might lose a finger to frostbite. He’d cherished the idea, but it wasn’t to be. He had looked forward to cutting it off.
There were only a handful of guards in this section of the prison, maybe one every twenty meters. The actual security system relied on a single exit shaft as the only means of escape. Sure, he could fight his way free, but locking the elevator meant he would never reach the surface.
And pumping out the oxygen meant the situation would be contained.
The Council didn’t want to bring civilians in on the secretive depths of their hellhole prison. The fewer guards they needed to hire, the fewer people knew of their existence, and any guards who were brought in were fed half-truths and lies about their true purpose. How many such men and women, he’d always wondered, knew who he was or why he was here?
Probably none. That was for the best. If they knew, they never would have been able to do their jobs.
As they walked, the Reverend felt the ritual wash away and he became himself once more. Just a man getting on in years: broken, pathetic, and alone as he paid for his mistakes.
Finally, they arrived at the entrance of the prison: an enclosed set of rooms cut into the stone walls backing up to a shaft. A solitary elevator bridged the prison to the world above, guarded by six men, but that wasn’t where they took him.
They guided him to one of the side rooms, opening the door but waiting outside. Inside were a plain brown table and one-way mirror, similar to a police station, but nothing else.
A woman sat at the table facing away from the door. She had brown hair and a white business suit with matching heels. Very pristine; Frieda was always so well-dressed.
“Here we are,” the guard said. The Reverend didn’t acknowledge the man, but he did walk into the chamber. He strode past the table and sat in the chair facing Frieda.
He studied her: she had deep blue eyes and a mole on her left cheek. She looked older, and he couldn’t remember the last time she’d come to visit him.
Probably not since the day she helped lock him in that cell.
“Close the door,” Frieda said to the guards while still facing the Reverend.
“But ma’am, we are supposed to—”
“Close the door,” she reiterated. Her tone was exactly the same, but an undercurrent was there. Hers was a powerful presence, the type normal people obeyed instinctually. She was always in charge, no matter the situation.
“We will be right out here,” Steve replied finally, pulling the heavy metal door closed.
Silence enveloped the room, a humming emptiness.
He stared at her, and she stared at him. Seconds slipped past.
He wondered how she saw him. What must he look like today? His hair and beard must be shaggy and unkempt with strands of gray mixed into the black. He imagined his face, but with eyes that were sunken, skin that was pale and leathery. Doubtless, he looked thinner, almost emaciated.
He was also covered in blood, the smell of which would be overpowering. It disgusted him; he hated how his daily ritual left him, battering his body to maintain control, yet he answered its call without question.
“Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?” the Reverend asked finally, facing Frieda again.
“We need your help,” Frieda said, ignoring his question. “You’ve been here for a long time, and things have been getting worse.”
“You quoted Nietzsche, that first meeting. I thought it was pessimistic and rhetorical,” he continued.
“Crime is getting worse. The world is getting darker and…”
“I thought you were talking about something that might happen to someone else but never to me. I had no idea just how spot on you were: that you were prophesizing my future,” he spoke. “Do you remember your exact words?”
“We need your help,” Frieda finished. Then she added softer: “need your help.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he said: “Do you remember?”
She sighed. “I do.”
“Repeat it for me.”
She frowned. “When we first met, I said to you: ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’”
He nodded. “You were right. Now I am a monster.”
“You aren’t a monster,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “I am your monster.”
Rage exploded through his body, and he felt every muscle tense. “That is not my name!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. It made a loud crashing sound, shredding the silence, and the wood nearly folded beneath the impact.
Frieda slid her chair back in an instant, falling into a fighting stance. One hand gripped the cross hanging around her neck, and the other slid into her vest pocket. She wore an expression he could barely recognize, something he’d never seen on her face before.
She was afraid of him. The realization stung, and more than a little bit.
The Reverend didn’t move from his seat, but he could still feel heat coursing through his veins. He forced his pulse to slow, his emotions to subside. He loved the feeling of rage but was terrified of what would happen if he gave into it; if he embraced it.
He glanced at the hand in her pocket and realized what weapon she had chosen to defend herself. A pang shot through his chest.
“Would it work?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but a minute trace of shame crossed her face. He stood slowly and walked around the table, reaching a hand toward her. To her credit, she barely flinched as he touched her. He gently pulled her fist out of the pocket and opened it. In her grip was a small vial filled with water.
Will it work?” he asked.
“Arthur…” she breathed.
The name brought a flood of memories, furrowing his brow. A little girl playing in a field, picking blueberries and laughing. A wife with auburn hair who watched him with love and longing as he played with their daughter. He quashed them; he feared the pain the memories would bring.
That was a pain he did not cherish.
“I need to know,” he whispered.
He slid the vial from her hand and popped the top off. She watched in resignation as he held up his right arm and poured a few droplets onto his exposed skin. It tingled where it touched, little more than a tickle, and he felt his skin turn hot.
But it didn’t burn.
He let out the shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Thank God,” Frieda whispered.
“I’m not sure She deserves it,” Arthur replied.
“We need your help,” Frieda said again. When he looked at her face once more, he saw moisture in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from relief that the blessed water didn’t work, or sadness that it almost had.
“How can I possibly help?” he asked, gesturing at his body helplessly with his arms. “You see what I am. What I’ve become.”
“I know what you were.”
“What I am no longer,” he corrected. “I was ignorant and foolish. I can never be that man again.”
“Three girls are missing,” she said.
“Three girls are always missing,” he said, “and countless more.”
“But not like these,” she said. “These are ours.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Rescues?”
She nodded. “Two showed potential. All three were being fostered by the Greathouse family.”
He remembered Charles Greathouse, an old and idealistic man who just wanted to help. “Of course, you went to Charles,” Arthur said. “He took care of your little witches until they were ready to become soldiers.”
“He volunteered.”
“And now he’s dead,” Arthur said. Frieda didn’t correct him. “Who took the girls?”
“We don’t know. But there’s more. It killed three of ours.”
“Michael and Rachael Felton.”
“And the third?”
He cursed. “You know she wasn’t ready. Not for this.”
“You’ve been here for five years,” Frieda said. “She grew up.”
“She’s still a child.”
“She wasn’t anymore.”
“She’s my child.”
Frieda hesitated, frowning. He knew as well as she did what had happened to put him in this prison and what part Abigail had played in it. If Abigail hadn’t stopped him…
“We didn’t expect . . .” Frieda said finally, sliding away from the minefield in the conversation.
“You never do.”
“I’m sorry,” Frieda said. “I know you were close.”
The Reverend—Arthur—had trained Abigail. Raised her from a child after rescuing her from a cult many years earlier. It was after his own child had been murdered, and he had needed a reason to go on with his life. His faith was wavering, and she had become his salvation. They were more than close. They were family.
And now she was dead.
“What took them? Was it the Ninth Circle?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Our informants haven’t heard anything.”
“A demon?”
“Probably several.”
“Where did it take them?” he asked.
“We don’t know.”
“What is it going to do with them?”
This time, she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
“So you want me to clean up your mess?”
“It killed three of our best,” Frieda said. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to do.”
“What does the Council want you to do?”
“Wait and see.”
“And you disagree?”
“I’m afraid that it’ll be too late by the time the Council decides to act.”
“You have others you could send.”
“Not that can handle something like this,” she said.
“You mean none that you could send without the Council finding out and reprimanding you?”
“You were always the best, Arthur.”
“Now I am in prison.”
“You are here voluntarily,” she said. “I’ve taken care of everything. There is a car waiting topside and a jet idling. So, will you help?”
He was silent for a moment, thinking. “I’m not that man anymore.”
“I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I do.”
“What happens if I say ‘no’?”
“I don’t know,” Frieda said, shaking her head. “You are my last hope.”
“What happens,” he began, a lump in his throat, “when I don’t come back? What happens when I become the new threat and you have no one else to send?”
Frieda wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.
“When that day comes,” she said softly, staring at the table, “I’ll have an answer to a question I’ve wondered about for a long time.”
“What question is that?”
She looked up at him. “What is my faith worth?”

Book Trailer:

Tour is sponsored by 4
Nonne Jules & Co. 
Just like the wheels on a car, our strong Wills keep you moving forward. 

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Good Morning: A new adventure

Good morning, 

Today I'm going out to have a new adventure. I'm traveling into Indiana to give a presentation, talk, workshop about "Waterlilies Over My Grave" to a senior citizens residence's book club.  I've given talks before, but never to a book club before. Bringing alone lots of questions and ice breaking ideas that I got from an Internet article. (A couple, actually.) 

After this book, if all goes well, they'll be reading "In the Arms of the Enemy." The book about the horse industry. 

Can't wait until "Legacy of Danger" comes out. That's the one with the castle and ghosts. I hope you all get a chance to read it and give me your feedback. The date is set for sometime in September or October. I'll keep you informed. 

Have a good one. 

Patricia A. Guthrie (Pat) 

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Good morning fellow: bloggers, readers, writers and everyone who's been following me.

Good morning fellow: bloggers, readers, writers and everyone else who's been following me. You are appreciated. 

What am I working on? Really want to know? A real-life murder/paranormal mystery. Not a romantic suspense this time, although it has its romantic moments. That's all I'll mention at the moment. I'm still working out the plot line. 

If you've been following, you know that "Legacy of Danger" will actually be coming out in the fall. 
Young woman inherits a castle in Romania and is stalked by assassins and helped by a hostile ex-boyfriend and her deceased husband. Yes, that's right her DECEASED husband. He's a ghost. She (they) run into all kinds of friends and enemies along the way, including a young nine-year-old Romanian boy who adores all things American, the Bears, both team and his horse. Can't wait until its out. 

Tomorrow "Waterlilies Over My Grave" comes out again. This time, we're going to a book club meeting where I'll be presenting the book to senior citizens, who've already read it, and, I understand, have a LOT of questions. I've worked out a few plot and character questions for them, too. This should be fun. 

Anyone want to host a blog tour? Let me know.

Everyone, have a great day. 

Patricia A. Guthrie

Monday, May 2, 2016

BOOK REVIEW: "Finding Katie" by Harmony Kent The story of one girls struggle for survival and overcome the traumas of childhood. As suspenseful as any thriller

This is a well-deserved five star book, the story of one girl's struggle for survival and to overcome the traumas of her childhood. We start our journey as Kate wakes up in the hospital, is admitted into a mental ward and subsequently learns her parents don't want her anymore. Seventeen-year-old Kate now abandoned and locked up. Why? Because of the horrific self-infliction of wounds that we learn is part of the "Gothic" culture--but not in Kate's case. She's not Gothic, just horribly abused and in need of getting rid of her pain. This is her story, but not hers alone. There are the friends she makes along the way, fellow abused patients, a caring staff, which is good to see after all the stories told about abusive mental health workers. Not here. If ever a child had a way of regaining self-esteem and road-to-recovery, it's Kate. Harmony Kent did a brilliant job of research, character development and plot design. Good work to Ms. Kent and "Finding Katie."

Patricia A. Guthrie

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

D.E. Howard Winner of Rave Review Book Club's "Push Forward Week."

Congratulations to D.E. Howard for winning Rave Review Book Club’s “Push Forward Week.”

D. E. Howard -
Blog or Website:
Twitter: @dehauthor
Facebook Page URL:

            Assaie’s Gift
Human love can last a lifetime, the love of a Goddess is eternal.

Kia Deering is a normal teenage girl looking forward to celebrating her 18th birthday in style. What she didn't anticipate was the revelation that would change her life beyond recognition. 
The Goddess Assaie fell for a human and gave up everything, including her identity, to be with him, sacrificing everything she ever knew in the name of true love. 
When Kia discovered she was a descendant of the Goddess she had a year to embrace all that it meant or to turn her back on her destiny forever. 
Kia had always believed herself to be ordinary but now she was extraordinary she had no idea if she could handle the potential of the power within her. Perhaps the handsome young man she meets in a nightclub could be the distraction she needed, or perhaps he will open up a whole new set of questions himself. 

“A pantheonic love story with several twists on the theme, I can highly recommend this first novel by this author”
“Amazing book from start to end”
“I shall be recommending it to my friends”

Events from the past come together, in this fantastical romance, to change the present and nothing will ever be the same again, for any of them. 

Read D E Howard's début novel Assaie's Gift and follow a love that began in another era. 


Do you believe in magic?

Ellie Forrester didn't. 

Raised an only child by a mother who never hid her resentment Ellie learned from an early age to be self sufficient. 

Finally moving away from her mother's negative influence Ellie thought her small run down flat was a little piece of paradise. 

The old book she found hidden away didn't seem to be anything remarkable but Ellie soon discovered that it contained far more than just the words on the pages. 

Ellie soon discovered that not only did magic exist but it was within her reach. 

Do you believe in magic? 
Ellie Forrester does!

Patricia A. Guthrie

In the Arms of the Enemy
Waterlilies Over My Grave
Legacy of Danger (coming soon) 

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Good Push Tuesday Morning for Linda M. Filler

Good morning!

Rave Review Book Clubs Push  Tuesday winner is Linda M. Filler and her book, "Target In The Sun."


An infant loses both his parents tragically and spends his youth and young adulthood in disconnected search and longing, surviving on the streets of coastal Mexico where the beauty and allure of his homeland mix with his relentless desire to belong. 

Anticipation builds as powerful human emotions span a search for love, acceptance and belonging to existence in a world wrought with escalating illicit drug trade from the depths of lush Mexican jungles across borders in a vast network of distribution throughout America. An expansive coalition of drug enforcement agencies on both sides of the border mount a fierce campaign of surveillance and seizure with swift and destructive assault on the drug lords their ultimate objective. 

All the while a young boy struggles with the heart-wrenching prospect of a life of loneliness, sadness, anger, and an unwavering resistance to commitment. Amidst the turmoil of surroundings and circumstance a boy becomes a man in a search for belonging that leads a troubled soul on a dangerous romp from the sultry Mexican Riviera beaches to the heat of coastal nightclubs and salacious entanglements behind closed doors. 

As time passes, Mia’s visits to Puerto Vallarta become more frequent and her relationship with Carlos becomes ever-clearer. At first mere carnal instinct, a conquest of pleasures, life events and new acquaintance bring discovery, emotional attachment and a burning desire for enduring love as it was always meant to be. 

‘Target In The Sun’ is an impassioned story of search and longing for the ultimate connection.

This looks interesting. Why not pick up a copy?