Tag Archives: The Chalice War: Cauldron

Thursday Teaser — THE CHALICE WAR: CAULDRON Drops Tomorrow!!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeThe Chalice War: Cauldron, the second volume in my new Celtic-themed urban fantasy, will be released tomorrow by Bell Bridge Books. And to get you a bit more excited about the release, I offer a new teaser — my hero’s first encounter with the Celtic sea god, Manannán mac Lir. Enjoy!!

*****

While Carrie continued her conversations, Riann wandered up the strand. Near a rock pool, she came upon a man who sat in a rickety lawn chair, an ancient Billabong baseball cap on his head, and two fishing poles set in rod holders before him. A dory rested at the tideline a short distance away, its wood worn and badly in need of fresh paint.

Or so she thought at first glance.

When she glimpsed it from the corner of her eye, the boat looked quite different. It was golden and perfect. She halted and stared straight at the vessel; once again, it appeared to be a battered old rowboat.

She wheeled to face the man. “What—”

His smile stopped her.

He was gorgeous. His chin and cheeks were grizzled, and the corners of his emerald eyes crinkled. He had a dimple on one side, and his hair stuck out from beneath his hat, hanging down to the base of his neck. He wore khaki cutoffs and a stained, torn short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a tanned and toned chest and belly, lightly covered with fine silver curls. She had been with men and women, and she preferred the latter. But she would have taken this man to her bed without hesitation.

And he seemed to know it.

“You like my boat?” he asked in a soft Irish burr, his voice a warm tenor.

She eyed the dory again, then averted her gaze slightly, enough to see it turn golden once more.

“I don’t understand,” she said, facing him.

“Of course you do, love. You understand perfectly.” He nodded at Quinn, who stood beside her. “Your conduit is beautiful. May I?”

Before she could answer, he clicked his tongue and held out a hand, palm up. Quinn strained to reach him. Riann released the leash, unsure of why she did it. Quinn trotted to the man and sat in front of him, allowing him to scratch her ears and neck.

“Aye, a fine creature.” He regarded her. “You’re Michael Donovan’s girl, aren’t you?”

She gaped, but took a step toward him. “You knew my father?”

“Aye, love. He was a good man. His death was a terrible loss for all in the magical world.”

Riann stole a glance at Carrie, started and looked again, then turned a quick circle. A soft wind blew off the water, cooling the day, and the surf surged and retreated as always. Silver gulls circled and cried, and a sea eagle flew past, clutching a fish in its talons. But every person on the beach and the sidewalk had frozen in place, as if time had stopped.

“I’m dreaming,” she murmured, frightened.

“You’re not even asleep.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out something that caught the sun with a flash of silver. He tossed it in her direction.

She caught and scrutinized it. It appeared to be a coin of some sort, though almost all the detail had been worn away. She thought there might be a head on one side. She couldn’t make out the design on the obverse. It was mostly round, and slightly concave.

“What is this?”

“A drachm. A Celtic crown essentially. Proof that I’m real, that this is real.”

Riann turned it over. “How—”

“Twenty-two hundred years, give or take.”

She studied the coin for another moment before walking closer to him and holding it out for him to take.

“Keep it,” he said with a smile. “A token, to remember me.”

“Who are you?” Riann asked, fear giving way to curiosity.

“Forgive me. Manannán mac Lir, at your service.”

She’d heard the name before, from her father, of course. She combed her memory.

A small frown creased the man’s brow, which, impossibly, made him even more attractive. “Come now. I refuse to believe that Michael never spoke of me.”

“He did. I just can’t remember—”

“You would forget a god?”

And then she did remember.

Manannán, the sea god. A trickster, her father called him. Fickle, even capricious, like all the Celtic gods, but essentially benevolent.

Riann wondered if she should bow, or kneel.

“Most prostrate themselves before me,” he said, his tone severe.

“O-oh! I . . . I didn’t know.”

He laughed. “That was a joke, love. I had the sense you were about to curtsy or some such.”

She felt her face redden.

One of the fishing poles juddered and nodded. Manannán sat forward, took hold of the pole, and reeled in what turned out to be an enormous silver fish. The god removed the hook from the creature, whispered something to it in a language Riann didn’t know, and heaved it back into the water, easily clearing the coastal breakers.

“Why—”

“Just checking in with old friends. What do you know about the woman?”

As quickly as blood had flooded her cheeks it now drained away, leaving her cold, despite the sunshine.

“What?”

“The woman. The dead one they found last night.” He continued to scratch Quinn’s head. She licked his hand.

“That was you,” Riann said, remembering how Quinn growled and stared into the darkness. “You were watching us.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She was Sidhe. She was killed by a Fomhoire and her demon. But that’s about all. I don’t know why they killed her.”

“Fomhoire need a reason?”

She lifted a shoulder, conceding the point.

“You know nothing more?”

“I know her name, where she worked, that she was on a museum board and was recognized for her philanthropy.”

“Which museum?”

“The Australian.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “What else?”

She shrugged again. “That’s all.”

Manannán’s frown this time conveyed disapproval, as if he thought she should know more.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because she thought he expected it.

“No worries, love. But I may check with you again at some point. If you learn anything of value, I hope you’ll tell me. Fomhoire incursions are becoming too frequent for my taste. And now they’ve focused their attention here. There has to be a reason.”

“There are others who know more than I do. Why ask me?”

“Who says I haven’t asked those others?” He let the question hang, a gentle rebuke. “As to why you, because you were there last night, of course. Because you knew enough to convince the police to let you see the body. That was well done. Michael would have admired your resourcefulness.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled in answer and her knees nearly gave way. Rather than stare at him, she cast another look at Carrie, who still stood frozen with the brawlers. When Riann turned back to the god she found him eyeing the reporter as well.

“She a friend of yours?”

“I suppose. We’ve only really just met.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on Carrie, an odd twist to his grin. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“What is?”

Manannán turned back to her, his expression brightening. “Not a thing. Remember what I told you. Learn what you can, and watch for me. My demesne ends at the shore, so I’ll always be near water.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m going to start things again now. You may experience a moment’s unpleasantness. It’ll pass. ’Til next time.”

Before she could say goodbye, a wave of dizziness crashed over her and she staggered. Voices reached her. A dog on the far side of the street barked and a car engine revved. The world had awakened.

Manannán was gone, as were his chair, the fishing poles, and that magical golden boat. The coin lay in her palm. Proof . . . . Quinn whimpered and sidled back to Riann.

Riann scratched her head absently.

Carrie called her name and when Riann looked that way, she waved and beckoned. Riann strode over the sand to the sidewalk. Already she felt better.

“Do you have the images you need?” Carrie asked.

“Uh . . . yes. Your interviews are over?”

The woman nodded. “I have enough to write my story.” She surveyed the beach. “It’s nice here. Too bad we haven’t time to stay.”

“Yes. Did you happen to notice the man I was talking to?”

“I didn’t see you talking to anyone. Who was he? Did he see what happened last night?”

“No, nothing like that. Just . . . just a guy fishing. We should probably head back.”

Professional Wednesday: Marketing Strategy, a New Release, and an Excerpt!!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeThis Friday — the day after tomorrow!! — The Chalice War: Cauldron, the second book in my new Celtic-themed urban fantasy series, will be released by Bell Bridge Books. For those of you thinking, “Wait, didn’t you JUST have a release in this same series?” you’re right, I did. The Chalice War: Stone came out May 5, four weeks before this week’s release. And the final book in the series, The Chalice War: Sword, will be out in July or August. (And wait until you see the jacket art: Spoiler Alert — it’s spectacular!)

The thinking behind rapid-fire releases of this sort is pretty simple: If the first book interests readers, and if they fly through that opening volume, they will be eager for more and won’t want to wait. I can’t tell you how many times authors hear from readers, “Oh, I hate waiting for each book in a series to come out, so I wait until the last book is published before I buy any of them.”

This is deeply frustrating for those of us who write and sell books for a living. I get it, of course. Sometimes, fans have to wait a year or more for subsequent volumes in a series to be released. And on occasion, those subsequent volumes never appear at all. The series is dropped by the publisher, or the author simply never gets around to completing the story. Writers aren’t the only ones who can find the publishing schedule frustrating.

Here’s the thing, though: Quite often, the publication of second and third and fourth volumes in a given series is dependent on the sales of the first book. If sales of Book I disappoint, some publishers will decide to drop the series, rather than go to the trouble and expense of putting out the later volumes. And so the reluctance of readers to buy that first book, lest the others don’t find their way to print, becomes self-fulfilling.

The rapid release model is relatively new in the publishing world, but it is intended to prevent this sort of thing from happening. If readers see the second and third books coming out so soon after the first, they will be more willing to buy that initial installment, and might go ahead and just grab all three as they appear. This is certainly my hope.

So, in the spirit of marketing and piquing your interest, let me tell you a bit about Book II, Cauldron. In book I, Stone, we meet Marti Rider, a Sidhe conjurer, and Kelsey Strand, two strangers who are bound to each other by a powerful magical artifact. They are attacked and pursued across the country by Fomhoire demons and their allies, who are intent upon killing them, claiming the artifact as their own, and using it to conquer our world. Along the way, we encounter a host of Celtic immortals who help our heroes or hinder them, depending on their shifting alliances.

In Cauldron, the pursuit of these magical chalices shifts to Australia, where we are introduced to Riann Donovan and her friend (and perhaps more) Carrie Pelsher. Riann is a Sidhe sorcerer who has fled the States to Australia to escape a tragic past. Carrie is a journalist with a strange affinity for magic. When the Sidhe community in Sydney is devastated by a coordinated Fomhoire assault, the two women find themselves in a race against time and a dance of intrigue among gods, Furies, and demons. And yes, for those wondering, Marti and Kel will find their way to Australia to join the fun.

As I’ve said before, I love all of these books. Writing Cauldron allowed me to draw upon experiences and memories from the year I spent Down Under. Many of the locations described in the book are places Nancy, the girls, and I visited. It was a special book to write. And I hope you enjoy it.

And, to whet your appetite for the book even more, here is a short excerpt! Enjoy!

*****
The train had just pulled out of Redfern station when the first frisson of magic brushed across Sara’s skin. She shivered, tasting darkness in its touch.

Fomhoire. Here, in the middle of Sydney. Nearby and closing in, accompanied by . . . by what? Wight? Demon? Yes, demon. All this she read in that initial contact. More, she sensed the Fomhoire had already found her, was intent on her and closing the distance between them.

Sara stood, crossed to the nearest of the sliding doors, and stared out into the inky black of the railway tunnel, desperate for the light of the next station. Never had the distance between Redfern and Central felt so great. The train car rocked, and she grabbed hold of the steel pole beside her to keep from tumbling into the lap of a young businessman.

“Pardon me,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked to her. He answered with a nearly imperceptible nod and turned his attention back to the Herald.

Morning commuters crowded the CityRail trains and stations. Surely Fomhoire assassins wouldn’t attack her here, in front of so many.

A small voice in her mind replied, Why not?

She wore work clothes, carried her briefcase, was on her way to her office in the CBD. Roger, her tabby, her conduit, was at home, safe in her flat, too far away to help her with spells. She was powerless, defenseless.

The train slowed—finally!—and the train guard announced their arrival at Central Station.

“Change here for Northern, Carlingford, North Shore, Cumberland. . . .”

The moment the doors opened, she pushed her way out, heedless of the men and women in front of her and those on the platform waiting to board. People shouted after her; a few muttered obscenities. She didn’t care. She hurried to the nearest stairway, one that would take her to the concourse. The magic followed, aimed like a weapon at her back.

By the time Sara reached the top of the stairs, she was breathing hard, sweating through the blouse she wore beneath her blazer. She switched her briefcase to the other hand, wiped her slick palm on her skirt.

She kept to the crowd, surrounding herself with people, using them as shields and searching frantically for anyone who might give off enough glow to let her defend herself.

How can there be Fomhoire in Sydney?

She and the others maintained a network, a web of magic. Like Sidhe in other parts of the world, they watched for portals and Fomhoire incursions from the Underrealm. As far as she knew, they had sensed nothing.

For decades, Sara and her fellow Sidhe had protected one another, warned one another. These last several years had been quiet, peaceful. She knew other Sidhe in countries far from Australia had battled Fomhoire recently. Harrowing reports had reached her from the States, from Europe and Africa and Asia. But here . . . . Relative peace had reigned for so long, she had grown comfortable, lax. Caution needed to be a routine, like exercise. And she had grown lazy. How many mornings had she left her flat without taking the simple precaution of warding herself? This morning had been no different from yesterday, from the day before, from the one before that. Except it was entirely different. And she might well die because of it.

She exited the gates, threaded her way through the throng in the concourse, hoping to lose her pursuers among the masses. She would exit the station onto Pitt Street and grab a taxi. That was her plan anyway.

As she neared the doors at the west end of the concourse, she sensed more magic. Wights probably, but without Roger, she wouldn’t stand much chance against them, either. She slowed, halted. People flowed around her on either side, as if she were a stone in a stream.

Eddy Street then—the nearest exit.

After a single step in that direction she stopped again. More magic. They had her surrounded.

Another train perhaps. If she could return to the gates and get to a North Shore platform, or maybe the Illawarra line . . . .

A spell electrified the air and made the hairs on her neck stand on end. Sara could do nothing except brace herself for its impact.

Magic fell upon her an instant later, obliterating thought, will, consciousness. She couldn’t say if she remained standing or fell to the floor or ran in circles like some ridiculous child’s toy. Time was lost to her.

When next she became aware of her surroundings, she was still upright in the middle of Central Railway Station’s Grand Concourse. A woman stood before her radiating so much power Sara had to resist an urge to shield her eyes.

“Hello, Sara,” she said in a cool alto and an accent that would have convinced any native Aussie.

“Who are you?” Sara asked, surprised she could speak.

The woman smiled. She was beautiful, of course. The Fomhoire always were here in the Above, regardless of how they appeared in the demon realm. Pale blue eyes, flawless olive skin, golden brown hair that fell in a shimmering curtain to her shoulders. As brilliant and superficial as a Carnival mask. She wore jeans and a long sleeve Sydney FC T-shirt; nothing that would have made her stand out in a crowd.

A second form hovered at her shoulder, as hideous as the woman was lovely, as ethereal as she was solid. It appeared to be little more than a cloud; shapeless, smoke grey, undulating. What might have been eyes shone dully from within the shadow, like stars partially obscured by a nighttime haze. Its lone substantial feature was a mouth at its very center, nearly round and armed with several rows of spiny teeth.

Two demons. One ghastly, the other lovely. Both deadly, no doubt.

None of the people passing by took note of them. Sara sensed that she, the Fomhoire, and the cloud demon were invisible to all.

Monday Musings: This Blog, My Books, Your Support

This Blog:

I want to say from the outset that I love maintaining this blog. I write my twice-weekly posts because I enjoy sharing my thoughts (on Mondays) and my writing tips (on Wednesdays). Writing on demand in this way is always good practice. Delving into various issues with the Musings posts often is therapeutic for me, and forcing myself to think about different craft issues on a weekly basis helps me continue to hone my own writing skills.

I will also admit, though, that maintaining the blog is time-consuming. Some weeks, the posts flow pretty easily. Other weeks, not so much. It can take me a full day to write the two essays, occasionally more than a day. That’s fine, too. As we all know, writing can be like that — easy one week, excruciating the next.

To state the obvious, I am not compensated in any way for my blogging. That has been by choice, and I do not intend to place a paywall between my readers and the content on my blog. That, I fear, would change the dynamic between my blogging and reader response to my posts, which feels very organic right now. I want to keep it that way. I have thought, though, about creating a Patreon (for those unfamiliar with Patreon, it offers creators a chance to gain financial backing from subscribers) and asking people to contribute voluntarily. If every person who visited my blog and every person who subscribed to it gave just one dollar per week, that would be ample compensation.

As I say, it’s something I’ve considered. But . . . .

My Books:

As I’ve already said, I maintain the blog because I enjoy doing so. But, to be perfectly honest, I also do it to bring traffic to my website. The calculus is a little convoluted, but it goes something like this: If people come to my site to read the blog, maybe they will stick around and look at the other pages. And if they look around, maybe they’ll become interested in my books, and maybe they’ll start buying and reading those books. As marketing strategies go, it is neither brilliant nor revolutionary, but I’m a fantasy writer, not a Madison Avenue executive, and it’s the best I’ve got.

And so, I am a little reluctant to set up a Patreon because in a way I already ask you for a financial contribution, don’t I? I make no secret of my desire for you to read my books. I write about them in my blog posts, I refer to them in my social media posts, I talk them up and even hand-sell them at the conventions I attend. If someone were to ask you, “What do you think David B. Coe wants from you?” you probably wouldn’t have to think too long and hard before coming up with, “Well, I guess he would like me to buy his books when they come out.”

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeLet’s back that up with a little math. I said a moment ago that, were I to start a Patreon, I would be happy with contributions of $1.00 per week, which comes to $52.00 for the year. Now, as it happens, I have the first book of a new trilogy coming out on Friday of this week, May 5th. This is The Chalice War: Stone, the first book in my new Celtic urban fantasy from Bell Bridge Books. The second book, The Chalice War: Cauldron, will be out in June, and the third book, The Chalice War: Sword, will be out soon after that. Each printed book lists for $17.95. Factor in sales tax, and the three books together would cost about $57 or $58, or about $1.12 per week. (If you read ebooks, the three together will cost a total of about $16, or $0.31 per week. What a bargain!!)

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeSo, for about what you might give to a Patreon, you could have all the blog posts AND all three books in the new series.

And so . . . .

Your Support:

Yes, with a Patreon, most of the money goes directly to the author. When you buy our books, we authors get a much smaller share of the proceeds. And yet, most authors I know would make that trade every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Why? Because we write! Because we LOVE to write! Because we have new ideas that we are eager to write and have published!

Much that we hear about the publishing industry sounds arcane and confusing, and many of us respond to elements of the business with amazement and dismay, wondering why anyone ever chose to set up an entire sector of the economy in quite this way. But boiled down to its most basic elements, the business model is pretty straightforward. Authors write books, publishers put out those books, readers purchase and read those books. And if all goes as it should, and readers do their part, authors get to write and publish more and more books. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Which brings me, at long last, to my point. I need for you to buy my books. It really is that simple. If you like the blog — if you navigate to my page on Mondays and Wednesdays, or if you subscribe to my feed and the posts come to your inbox — you know how much I love to write. I love it so much I do it for free twice every week. But I can only do that if the books move off the shelves and I get to write and publish more of them.

Your support is vital, not just for me, but for every author whose work you care about. Stories matter. The written word matters. Today, more than ever before. All over the world and, sadly, all over our country, self-expression is under assault from those who fear ideas. All over the world, and all over our country, literature is dying a death of a thousand cuts: book bannings, apathy, the allure of gaming and television and social media. Books and authors need the passion and commitment of readers, just as readers need the passion and commitment of writers.

And, to state the obvious, authors need to make a buck. This is our passion, our obsession, our craft and art. It is also our livelihood.

So, please, enjoy my blog posts. If you’ve missed any recently, feel free to go back and read through the archives. And take a look around the site. Make yourself at home, and rest assured that I’ll be back with another post on Wednesday, and with more in the weeks to come. But also please consider that when you buy my books, and those of other authors, you not only get those stories, you also make possible all the content we make available to you.

Thanks for reading this. Have a great week.

Monday Musings: Missing a Missing Friend

We lived in Australia for a year back in the mid 2000s, when our daughters were in primary school. Alex, the older one, turned 11 while we were there. Erin turned 7. Both girls were already swimming competitively here at home when we went Down Under, and so we found a swim league that was affiliated with the university where Nancy was taking her sabbatical.

Early on in our time with the league we were befriended by a family who volunteered to help run the weekly swim practices, and who had a daughter who swam with our girls. Graham and Dianna — Di — were friendly, funny, and so incredibly welcoming to us. Laura, their only child, was a couple of years older than Alex, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. She loved our kids and she was great with them.

The first place we lived that year in Australia was near the university and near the school the girls attended, but our lease there was only for about half our stay, and we were set to move after the Christmas holiday. At our last swim event before the break, I was chatting with Graham, and he asked me what we had in mind for our holiday.

“Well, we’ll be traveling a bit, and then we need to move to a new place.”

“Oh, where are you moving to?”

“Up the coast a bit to Woonona.”

“Really? We live in Woonona. What’s the address?”

I told him, and he laughed. “That’s right around the corner from us.”

When we became neighbors, Alex and Laura began to spend a ton of time together, and their friendship brought our families even closer. Like me, Graham was an avid photographer, and also a guitar player. In fact, he lent me his guitar for the rest of our stay. We had meals with them, we went on day trips, we still went to swim of course. Graham and I became close friends. Near the end of our stay in Australia, we all went to the Warrumbungles, a mountain wilderness in New South Wales, north and west of Woonona. It was beautiful, and our two families had a marvelous week together, hiking, sightseeing, cooking, hanging out in the evenings.

Graham and DiGraham was incredibly generous, kind, whip-smart, fierce in his devotion to Di and Laura, and one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He and Di were both school teachers, both utterly devoted to education, to serving their schools and communities. They were active in their unions. They were political. They loved nature, loved good food and good drink. They were, in short, a lot like us. We knew that we wanted to maintain our friendship after our return to the States. And we did. The following summer Graham, Di, and Laura came to the States for their winter holiday (Southern Hemisphere and all that) and stayed with us for several days. Another great visit. We had tons of fun, but Graham and I also spent a good deal of time talking. He had just lost his father, something I went through a decade earlier. I can honestly say that even though we were now living literally half a world apart, our friendship had only deepened.

We chatted via Skype regularly, we messaged via social media all the time. We compared notes every time one of us updated his collection of camera equipment. When we lost my brother Bill, in the summer of 2017, he of course offered his love and support.

Only a few months later, Laura sent me a message that devastated all of us. Earlier that day, Graham had died suddenly. A heart attack. Totally unexpected. A thunderbolt. I felt like I had lost another brother. To this day, I miss him all the time. The loss remains raw and painful all these years later.

Graham would have been 63 this past Saturday. Yes, on April 1, and don’t think he didn’t make the most of having been born on April Fools’ Day.

We visited Di and Laura and Laura’s partner, Brad, in 2019, while we were in Australia to see Erin, who had taken a semester there. We had a fabulous visit — conversation, laughter, great meals, a couple of hikes. There was nothing maudlin about our time together. But Graham hovered over everything we did.

It is the most painful of clichés that we don’t know what life has in store for us or the people we love. With my brother’s death, and with the planning for his memorial, which occurred only a couple of weeks before Graham died, I had been out of touch with Graham for a little while when he passed. My fault entirely, although he would have understood. But I have thought about him a lot recently because the second book in my upcoming series is set in Australia, and it is dedicated to Graham, as well as to Di and Laura. And I have long wished for one more chance to chat with Graham, to share something funny or tell him about a recent photo shoot. So instead, I am going to take some time today to reach out to other friends, people I haven’t spoken or written to in a little while, people I miss.

Because we never know.

Have a wonderful week.