New Wings (The Anahira Chronicles, Book 1) by N.D. Iverson

Release date: July 18, 2017

Subgenre: Urban fantasy

About New Wings: 

Anahira Clarkson. Dating app addict. Problem drinker. Supernatural newbie. Screw up.When mauled bodies start piling up in Calypso City, Anahira and her crew are hired to hunt down the rogue werewolf responsible. No mercenary could refuse such a fat pay check. Too bad word spreads. With the Magistratus breathing down her neck and competing mercenaries hot on her heels, the case is messier than the werewolf’s meals.

If that’s not enough, her crew is being picked off one by one. Screw money, now it’s personal. Anahira has no choice; it’s time to woman up and track down the killer before her friends and co-workers become puppy chow.

Excerpt:

It was the light rustling beside me that first made me aware that I wasn’t alone under the covers. Oh well.

Oh well?! Do you want to end up in some guy’s freezer, Ana?

My eyes flew open as memories of last night flooded back. I bolted upright, my mind registering that I was naked save for my underwear and the sheetI was attempting to use as cover. I remembered going to the bar, drinking at the bar, then really drinking at the bar, and I semi-remembered leaving with someone. 

You need to stop using that Tonder app.

The afternoon light seeped out from behind the half-closed curtains, illuminating the small bedroom.Looking around the room, I realized I wasn’t at my place. Thank God. Maybe I could sneak out before the other party woke up … or maybe not.It looked like a toddler had been let loose in the bedroom without parental supervision. So many clothes and DVD cases littered the room that I couldn’t see an open path to the doorway. Clearly the concept of a laundry hamper—and Netflix—was lost on the owner. 

For all the mess, the room didn’t smell bad, almost as if there were air fresheners hidden beneath the dunes of junk. Posters plastered the walls.I couldn’t say I cared for the one that showcased a naked, oiled woman of unknown species grinding on a motorcycle, but I rather liked The Boondock Saints poster with Connor and Murphy pointing their guns at the next scumbag on their hit list.

Grudgingly, I turned my attention from the decor to the sleeping mass beside me. The only discernible feature visible was a mop of white hair sticking out from under the covers. My mouth flopped open in horror.

Oh my God! You went home with an old man! I wonder if he got his grandson to set up his Tonder account.

After giving myself a shake and wondering just how old this guy was, I slid off the bed to search for my clothes. They were strewn on the floor around the bed, so I didn’t have to look too hard. I picked up a bra and instantly tossed it back when I realized it wasn’t mine. I did not do polka dots.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dresser mirror and cringed. Day-old makeup was smudged across my face, and my black hair, hanging below my shoulders, stuck out in every direction. 

You’re the poster child for the walk of shame.

I picked up my jeans and dug through the pockets for my emergency hair elastic. Using my fingers, I combed my hair into a half-assed ponytail. The raccoon mascara smudges made my eyes look Husky-dog blue. I scooped up the nearest thing I could find to wipe away the mess, which happened to be a black t-shirt. On the front, it said, “MS FBI: Multi-Species, Female Body Inspector.” 

Horny old grandpa.

When I was done wiping my face, I tossed the shirt back on the ground. Once I was fully dressed in my wrinkled bar clothes from last night and had my sandals safely grasped in my hand, I started my attempt at a quiet journey toward the door. 

That lasted about one step as my foot came down on a pile of broken glass. I bit down on my bottom lip to refrain from yelping in pain. Bracing myself against the wall, I lifted my foot to examine the wound. With a muffled curse, I pulled out the bloody, jagged shard of a Corona bottle that had decided to make my foot its new resting place. Once the glass was clear of my flesh, the skin wove itself together in seconds, leaving nothing to indicate that I’d stepped on trash. I ran my finger over the smooth flesh, still not used to witnessing my speedy healing abilities in action. Couldn’t say it didn’t come in handy, though. 

No tetanus shot for you today!

I sucked it up and dashed for the door. Thankfully, no more broken glass found my feet, just dirty clothes and old takeout containers. Once I reached the door, I chanced a look back to see if I’d woken the guy, but it looked like he hadn’t heard a thing.

Probably hard of hearing.

I took a few steps out of the doorway and gingerly bolted down the stairs into the living area. Worn couches, a ridiculously sized flat-screen, and a giant painting of two girls kissing occupied the space. As I hurried toward the front door, the cloying presence of magic tickled my senses. The air around me thickened as my skin tingled.  The strong magic stalled my feet. Odd. The guy sleeping upstairs had no magic feel about him. I had an inkling that he was something supernatural, but I hadn’t managed to nail that down.

Heh.

Sensing supernatural creatures and people was much harder than sensing inanimate mystical objects. Ignoring everything else around me, I closed my eyes and concentrated on where the whisper of magic was coming from. I placed the bloody piece of glass—which I hadn’t realized I’d kept—on the counter as the pull of magic drew me deeper into the kitchen. I gingerly placed my sandals on the floor and slipped my feet into them as I followed the trail.

I was getting better at this. I could feel magic pulling at me like the hand of a small child. Though the sensation faded in and out, it still led me to the scuffed kitchen table. The tabletop was bare and someone had recently wiped it clean with disinfectant. Given the messy state of the rest of the house, I found it rather suspicious. I’d be surprised if this guy even knew what bleach was. I bent down as my curiosity got the better of me.

Well, that explained it. I ran my hand along the bottom of the table until I reached the holstered gun that was safely tucked away and hidden from any passersby. I had to wiggle it, but the piece eventually came loose from its leather holster attached to the underside of the wooden table. With my mom’s voice yelling at me in my head to never touch a gun, I warily examined it. 

There were designs engraved into the cold carbon steel. It looked like an old revolver with a bit of a flair. If I wasn’t mistaken, someone had etched a spell into the body. Too bad I couldn’t read what it said. As I ran my fingers over the markings, the foreign words emitted a dim blue light, reacting to the feel of flesh running over it. 

This guy was likely a supernatural hunter or had a similar occupation to require a gun like this. What else did he have stashed all over the place? I popped open the cylinder. The chamber was fully loaded with six bullets, so I took one out to examine. The silver bullet had similar markings as the gun. I went to slide it back into the chamber, but a fresh bullet already filled the slot, as if I hadn’t taken the bullet out in the first place. One of the spells on the pistol must have been for never-ending bullets. 

“Not bad for an old guy,” I muttered as I pocketed the spare bullet and snapped the cylinder back into place. Didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. 

I hardly ever used guns. I preferred summoning my powerful golden bow if I needed to shoot something. Sometimes, I just had one of those days. It made me feel badass, like Hawkeye. 

More like Mr. T. I pity the fool who uses my golden weapons!

When I learned I could summon and then send away various weapons, I’d started practicing with fruit to see if it would work too. A red apple I sent away came back with a large bite taken out of it, and the mangled mark had way too many teeth to be from a human. The experience had been unsettling. I still had no idea where the weapons disappeared to when they left my hand. All I knew was that I wouldn’t be getting myself listed on the no-fly list like my roommate Raine. She’d tried sneaking a broad sword onto an international flight and unsurprisingly it didn't play out well for her. 

Not the brightest neon sign in the night that Raine.

 

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About N.D. Iverson: 

 

N. D. Iverson is a young author trying to find her niche in the world. She has a business degree - to which she is still trying to find a practical application for. She has bounced from half-baked ideas of becoming a forensic pathologist (cut short when the option for attending an autopsy came up and she rather quickly decided maybe that wasn't for her), a member of a rock band (sadly, neither she nor her friends could play instruments or sing, not that it's a requirement these days...), and many more.

This Would Be Paradise is her first completed novel, which has started a chain reaction of one-too-many book ideas dancing around in her head. She plans on wrangling in these ideas and turning them into something readable.

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