April's Affections and Intrigues: Love and Mystery Bloom

Grimoire, March 2011 The Grimoire Chronicles #1 by Phaedra Weldon Caldwell Press Featuring: Darren "Dags" McConnell; Allard Bonville 388 pages ISBN: 0615434185 EAN: 9780615434186 Paperback Add to Wish List Purchase Amazon Barnes & Noble Powell's Books Books-A-Million Indie BookShop

"The touch of the wraith and the actions of a witch will change him forever"

Grimoire
Phaedra Weldon

Reviewed by Loa Ledbetter
Posted April 29, 2011

Thriller Paranormal - Supernatural | Fantasy Urban

When Darren "Dags" McConnell joined a Ceremonial Magic group, he wasn't looking to become a magician. He wasn't even sure he believed in magic but he did know he was different and wanted to find a place to belong. The group's leader, Allard Bonville, had other plans for Dags; more nefarious designs to use Dags to bring back Allard's wife's spirit from the Abysmal plane where he sent her so he could find the grimoire she hid from him. Plans that would include Dags death.

The best laid plans, well, we know how they go, and Allard's attempt not only fails, but ends up tying a pair of powerful familiars to Dags, changing him into a Guardian with a foot in both the Abysmal and Ethereal planes. With "the Girls" help, and their knowledge of a powerful grimoire, Dags tries to unravel the mystery of what he has become, while trying to avoid those that want to do more to him. However when another witch steps in to help Dags, she may take away the last pieces of Dags, in order to save him.

Phaedra Weldon has taken one of my favorite secondary characters from her Wraith series and given Dags his own with GRIMOIRE, the first book in the Grimoire Chronicles. Throughout the Wraith series, we would get pieces of Dags as he interacted with Zoe, the wraith. With GRIMOIRE, we get to see what was happening to Dags while he was not in the scene, and it was apparently a lot. Weldon does an excellent job of keeping the two stories well in sync but has written GRIMOIRE well enough as a standalone series, that the reader may start with either series, and enjoy filling in the holes with the other. The only confusion I found was that the story opened (and ended) with a preface of Revenant, the fourth book in the Wraith series which came out in 2010. Having already read Revenant when it came out, I was thrown off by the step back in the Weldon-verse chronology; so much so, I had to go read it again! Not that I minded though.

If you are familiar with the Wraith series, you will enjoy seeing everything from Dags point of view, and will go from thinking Dags as the sweet nice guy who needs protecting, to someone you can't wait to come into his own and kick some .... Well, you know. If you haven't yet found Phaedra Weldon, GRIMOIRE will spell you into wanting more.

Learn more about Grimoire

SUMMARY

Darren "Dags" McConnell's life is far from normal—not everyone sees and talks to ghosts—but none of his life experiences prepare him for what's to come. After he receives a set of magical summoning marks on his palms as part of an initiation into a Ceremonial Magic group, Dags becomes the target of the group's leader, Allard Bonville. Bonville's nefarious plans to bring his wife's spirit back from the Abysmal plane would also bring about Dags' death.

A bungled spell and Dags' tattoos become gateways of the Abysmal and Ethereal planes, and host to a pair of Familiars who bring with them knowledge of a powerful Grimoire. A book, in a witch's hand, that will irrevocably change him forever.

Excerpt

The Day the World Changed

“You know how to make a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall?”

I looked up from the mug I was filling with the house tap. The woman was tall—easily five-nine—with long red hair that curled to just under her breasts. She wore a black dress—from what I could see of it from behind the bar—and a ruby-red smile. Her teeth were bleached and perfectly straight.

“Coming right up,” I said, and though my gaze lingered a bit too long in hers, I didn’t over-pour the beer.

I tapped it off just in time and set it on Tracy’s tray, which was already filled with two White Russians and a rum and Coke. She bounced out from behind the bar where she’d grabbed two water bottles and took up the tray.

“Thanks, Dags,” she said as she balanced the tray precariously on her left forearm, and then moved away.

I grabbed an appropriate glass from the shelf below and started the redhead’s order.  It was a regularly requested drink—especially on a Saturday night. That and rum and Cokes. Pretty much standard. Now, I have to admit, the only time I’ve ever been surprised by a drink order was when this big, burly brute-squad type of dude came into the loft and slapped both hands down on the bar. Everyone’s drinks rattled, the bowls of peanuts actually slid out of the way, and my own heart skipped when I beheld the size of this guy’s forearms. I figured he’d order like some manly drink, like…a beer.

Until he opened his mouth and spoke in a high-pitched voice. “I’d like a Pink Squirrel, please.”

Yeah…this job has its perks. And its not-so-perks.

In case it isn’t obvious, I’m a bartender. It’s an easy gig, and someone’s always needing a reliable drink-slinger. But then, my life’s been dotted with several trades, such as waiter, dishwasher, webmaster and, recently, hospital orderly. It’s not that I’m not good at any one thing—it’s that I like variety. I like having days that don’t always go the same way. The monotony of the nine-to-five—uh uh. That way lies madness.

But there are constants. Like—girls.

Women. Ah…the absolute joy, and defining bane of the male existence. Those of us with inclinations toward the fairer sex often learn at a young age that such a journey is fraught with peril.

No…wait. Peril is such a tame word. I’d say Absolute Fucking Danger. Trying to carry on a relationship with a woman is more like trying to walk through a field of trapdoors. With no lifelines. And no cell phone for a quick way out. A guy’s only saving grace in situations like that?

Chocolate.

But, in my case, in the situation I found myself in that night, chocolate just wasn’t going to cut it.

I was bartending at The Livery Bar and Restaurant the night my life took a rather strange downward spiral. Three nights a week—weekends mostly. During the day I bartended at Fadó’s, an Irish Pub in Buckhead—or what used to be Buckhead. Not sure it’s anything anymore, save for an overpriced area of Atlanta. City regulations on bars and closing times have pretty much killed a lot of the night life, much to the resident’s joy and the merchant’s pockets.

The Livery is in Roswell, Georgia, above Atlanta. North end of Fulton County. Nice affluent area. Also where I call home in an apartment I rent above a friend’s garage. The Livery sits in Roswell’ Square, which surrounds a park with a gazebo and really cool gnarled oaks. The Livery faces the square beside the Chamber of Commerce building.

Back in the days of the Civil War—a really big thing down in the South—it was the general store. Grains and other storage items were kept up in the loft and lowered down through a hole for business. After that, it was a funeral home for several years and the loft was used to store coffins. Once again, they were hoisted down through the hole to the floor below.

When it was made into a restaurant, the owners built stairs and turned the loft into a piano and dessert bar. Guests could enjoy five-star dining downstairs, and come up to enjoy a dessert, a drink, and a bit of music. I bartend upstairs in the loft and I’ve met a lot of interesting people.

Pink Squirrel is a regular now, and I always have his little fuchsia drink ready.

Oh, there’s one more thing about the loft.

It’s haunted.

Yep. No joke.

Civil War ghosts (yeah, get the groaning over with now). A love story between the proprietor’s daughter and a Northern soldier. And just to cut to the chase—yeah, they got caught and he was hung in the square as a deserter. She committed suicide and now they play practical jokes in the loft, like turning pictures around or stacking the chairs on top of each other.

Well…that’s not really true.

The weird stuff is, but the reasons for it aren’t.

I can say from a professional’s point of view, there aren’t any Civil War ghosts in this loft, but there sure are a lot of other “things” lurking about. What profession you wonder? Ah…read on….

When the drink was finished I set it on the bar in front of the redhead and said, “Four fifty, please.”

She palmed me a ten—but didn’t let go of my hand right away. I tugged once and then looked up into her eyes again. They were brown. And they were looking at me.

No…more like…through me.

Gave me the creeps.

“You can keep the change,” she said and her voice dropped a few octaves. It went deep.

And I mean—deep. Manly voice.

A man’s voice.

Yikes.

I gave her—him—it—a smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome…” She leaned in over the bar to look down at me. “Nice ass,” she said before she released my hand, grabbed her drink, and walked away.

Oh. Good. God.

“So,” came a voice behind me. “What the fuck was that about?”

I think my spine actually froze and then cracked into a million pieces at that moment with the amount of ice that dripped from that tone.

Maureen.

My on-again, off-again girlfriend. And to be honest—I thought we were off-again at that moment. I’d lost count. No one was at the bar was wanting a drink or flagging me, and I’d filled what I had in the queue, so I turned and smiled at Maureen. “Hi, Maureen—what was what about?”

She arched a dark eyebrow at me and nodded past me to the loft area, in the direction the tall he/she had gone. “That. Jesus—you’re the biggest flirt I’ve ever screwed, you know that?”

I sighed.

I liked Maureen. There were times where she was fun—and there were times when she was not so fun. This was a not-so-fun moment. She was just an inch taller than me—which isn’t that tall. I’m only about five-eight soaking wet. Not a really big guy. Not like Pink Squirrel.

Maureen sported what I called a physical body—she loved to run and hike and swim. Anything outdoors and she thrived in the summer and spring. Fall and winter? Not as happy. Her hair was just past her shoulders and framed a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were brown but not dark. In the light they looked almost amber in color. Tonight she wore the Livery’s hostess uniform—little black dress, black heels (which actually put her about three inches taller than me), and charming smile.

Only I wasn’t getting the charming smile. I was getting the You Die Now look.

I frowned and pointed back to the bar. “You’re talking about he/she—I wasn’t flirting—he/she was.”

Her own frowned deepened. “Oh come off it, Dags. That was a girl.”

“Uh huh. You go to her table and ask her how things are and then you come back and tell me that’s a girl.”

She looked dubious, and then sighed. “Don’t think I won’t do that.”

Thought never crossed my mind. I turned and grabbed up some glasses drying on the rinse rack and a new towel. I know…classic pose of a bartender polishing a glass…but hey. It works for talking during work hours and still looking busy. “So…besides being angry at me about not flirting—why are you up here?”

“Why? You don’t like it when I’m up here? Don’t like the idea of me keeping tabs on you?”

I frowned but kept polishing. “Maureen…”

“No, spare me. I’ve had it. You and I—”

“—shouldn’t see each other anymore,” I finished for her. I’d heard this soooo many times I have it burned to CD. “I know. I thought you said that last Friday night.”

“You weren’t working Friday night. You were too busy getting those,” and she pointed a long red-lacquered nail at my hands. “Honestly, Darren—how stupid can you be? Why would you let anyone tattoo something on your palms?”

Ah. Right. That’s what she was mad about. The tattoos. And yes, folks, I have tattoos on my palms. I’d already spent most of the week out of work while they healed—and right now they were still a bit sore. Having her complain about them—again—well, it was just pissing me off. “I told you—I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t want them.”

“Right. You woke up and they were there. You must think I’m really stupid.”

“No, I don’t,” I said, a little sterner than I wanted. But damn it,  I hadn’t lied when I said I didn’t want them, didn’t ask for them, and sure as hell didn’t pay for them.

“They didn’t call you back, didn’t they?” she said in a very quiet, un-like Maureen voice.

I quickly looked into her eyes and saw genuine concern there. I lowered the glass to the bar and nodded. By saying them, I knew she meant him. “Yeah. I left a few messages—finally had one of the calls returned. Basically it was part of being chosen as a Quarter.”

“Bullshit, Darren. That bastard is planning something—and you’re just gullible enough to fall for it. Get away from him. Please.”

If you’d known that back when I joined that stupid group, why didn’t you speak up then! This was your idea!

But I didn’t say it out loud. Just…thought it at about a decibel of a million.

It was my idea to join the Cruorem, a ceremonial magic group—stupid curiosity, really. It was my idea to confide in the leader about my abilities (I’ll get to those in a bit). And it was my idea to agree to be one of the Quarters—the four elements—for some upcoming ritual he wanted to perform. Little did I know that meant drinking some god-awful drink and waking up with bandaged hands in my apartment. I set the towel down and turned my palms up toward my face, spreading my fingers wide to look.

There were black-inked concentric circles on each palm. Circles in descending order. The first two were maybe a half inch apart, with symbols between them. The one on the left palm was just a little different than right palm. Mirror images of each other.

They were permanent now…and butt-fucking-ugly. They branded me as an even bigger weirdo than I already was. The person I’d been calling was Fafner, the group’s leader, who simply said in his message, “You are mine. Obey me and come when I call.”

What the fuck? Come when I call? Who—where—Christ!

I quit right then. Left a message on his phone. Went to a bodega I found in Little Five Points and spoke with this big busty woman who looked like Debbie Reynolds about them. Her reaction was kinda neutral. Kinda. I saw the slight widening in her eyes and knew I’d done something awful.

But she’d given me a list of things to buy from a local Kroger, and a ritual to do.

Naked.

Why is it always naked?

And I’d done it last night—first night my palms could take being submerged in water with salt in it.

But it’d still hurt. And I’d sworn—for just a moment—that both of my palms had glowed white-blue. I know my hands had become warm and I was dizzy for a bit. But I’d kinda chalked that up to the incense she’d sold me, and having fasted for the day.

I didn’t tell Maureen any of this. In fact, I hadn’t even told my landlady, with whom I pretty much shared everything. I wasn’t sure what the ritual had done—if it’d done anything.

“You still see them?”

I looked up at Maureen from my palms. “Ghosts? Yeah. In fact, just a week ago I saw a girl at the other bar, down at Fadó’s. She was with that cop that always comes in, though I’m not sure he could see her.”

Yes. I see dead people. ’Fraid so.

But the one I’d just mentioned—the girl at the other bar. She’d seemed more vibrant than most ghosts. Beautiful. Exotic. And she’d worn bunny slippers.

“Darren,” Maureen said.

Her tone worried me again. I refocused on her and dropped my hands. “What is it?”

“I think I know what it is you’ve seen up here—in the loft.”

Remember how I said earlier what was up here wasn’t ghosts? I wasn’t kidding. Ghosts look like people. But what I’d been seeing—looked more like little people shadows. And they were nasty.

Nasty as in mean, not nasty as in pervy.

I leaned forward. “What?”

She looked around. “Shadow People.”

“You made that up.” I turned and started wiping the bar. Had to look busy just in case. When I looked out at the patrons I saw Jamie Reed by the staircase. She’d been watching me lately, and I’d noticed. She was watching me now and grinned when I made eye contact. Because I had Maureen the Flirt-Militia to my left, I just nodded. Jamie looked a bit crestfallen and carried her tray to a table near the window.

“No, I didn’t. I looked it up online, and then talked to a good friend of mine. She knows about this stuff, Darren. What’s up here—isn’t good. If they are Shadow People—someone could get hurt—”

A scream broke the murmur of diners, followed by the sickening sound of someone falling down the stairs. Maureen and I stared at each other for an instant before she dashed just ahead of me as we left the bar. Patrons and staff were crowding around the top of the stairs. Maureen pushed her way through and headed down.

“Jamie!” she called out.

I moved through them as well and peered over the railing of the look-through where the coffins used to drop when this was a mortuary.

There, sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the stairs, was Jamie. She wasn’t moving, and I thought I saw blood on the floor beside her head.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

“Did anyone see what happened?”

“It looked like she just tipped over!”

“I was watching and it looked like she was pushed—but there was no one there.”

That last comment snagged my attention. I looked around at the faces near me and realized it’d been the he/she. She stood the tallest in the room and had a hand to her mouth. For host purposes, I decided to go with the feminine pronoun set. I reached out and touched her arm and she looked down at me with wide eyes.

“Miss,” I said gently. “You said it looked like she was pushed?”

She moved back from the crowd and I moved with her. “Yes,” she said. “I was watching her—because I was admiring her hair—and she was at the top and turned to answer a question from someone—and it looked like something shoved her from the waist—but the person she was talking to wasn’t close enough to do that.”

Pushed.

From the waist.

And then I saw them—just out of the corner of my eye. Two short, wiry human-shaped shadows by the bar. I kept my eyes on them while I touched her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I hope she’s okay,” the woman said and moved back to the edge to gawk.

I turned and faced the shadows. My back to the backs of twenty people. No one was watching me as I took several steps in their direction.

I think it was then they realized I could see them. They stepped back as I advanced. I swear they looked like three-foot stick people. Maureen called them Shadow People. And the feeling I got from them as I came nearer wasn’t a pleasant one. In fact, it was harsh and vile. These things were filled with hate and resentment. Remorse and indignation. They were angry.

My hand tingled—kinda like they would if they were going to sleep right before the pin-needles started their job on them. The things took a few steps toward me and I swear it looked as if they were going to charge at me.

The tingling turned into a burning sensation.

“Dags?”

Abruptly the two did come at me and I thought I could make out shadowy faces, like the one in that painting called The Scream. And they looked like they had teeth! I put my hands up over my face—gotta protect the assets you know.
I felt a pulse of some kind—like a shudder that ran through my body and then I was dizzy—like, weak-kneed dizzy.

“Dags!”

That was Maureen’s voice. I was on my butt in seconds, my knees bent and my legs at odd angles. I didn’t pass out, thank the gods. Instead, I noticed a light on the carpet in front of me. Two lights, like the beams from two flashlights. And it looked like I was holding them. I turned my palms over just as Maureen knelt in front of me.

“What the—?” she said.

I seconded it with a nod as I stared at the circles.

They were glowing, just like they had last night. But this wasn’t a flash—this time the glow stayed, though it was dimming slowly. And the circles…they were moving! In opposite directions. Some clockwise, others counter-clockwise. Even the symbols were spinning.

Maureen grabbed my hands and looked at them. “Shit,” she said softly.

I nodded and watched the light dim before I looked up at her, and then around her. The little people were gone. It was just her, and me, and a crowd of people facing the opposite direction.

I heard a siren.

“Darren.” She said in a soft voice. “What the fuck did he do to you?”

I shook my head slowly and swallowed as the light finally dimmed in my palms. “I…I don’t know…”

I don’t fucking know…

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