It's been a blustery start to October in my neck of the woods. Today we're coming out of the rain and chatting with author E.J. Dawson. Welcome!
SC: Tell me a little bit about your main character of this book.
EJD: Letita is a psychic, able to read the veil between life and
death, to experience the final moments of the deceased. She uses her gift to
give closure to those who’ve lost someone they love. It’s a penance against her
dark past that imbued her with the gifts she now possesses, but she’s wary of
how to use her abilities, and knows there are darker things, more terrifying
things, than to be haunted by the souls of the dead.
SC: Well, they DO say the veil is thinner in October. Do you believe in the paranormal and if so, do you have
an experience you can share?
EJD: I’ve long studied the paranormal, had a huge fascination
with ghosts and haunted houses. But I’ve always wanted to see it myself, to
experience it. The closest I’ve ever come is on a ghost tour of the Beechworth
Asylum we were in the cellar, a space reserved for the criminally insane, and
the guide led us into a room. With about fifteen people, it wasn’t exactly
isolated, but when I entered the doorway, I sensed someone behind me. I stepped
aside, and looked up to give an apologetic smile to whoever was behind me.
There was no one there. Then the guide turned off the lights… To this day I’m
convinced someone was behind me, and stared at me in the dark.
SC: Thanks for sharing that with us. What titles are you working on now that you can tell us
about?
EJD: I’m working on new adult fantasy called Echo of the
Evercry, about Larissa, a girl who uses magic in a world where it’s a curse,
and leads down a path of evil. When her mother goes missing she’s charged with
bringing an orb her mother. But the orb may make the entity her mother hunts
stronger, too strong for any to defeat. It’s the first book in a planned
trilogy that will also be published by Literary Wanderlust. I am also working
on another gothic noir like Behind the Veil, this one is set in New York’s club
scene with a psychic who knows the history of every item she touches… all but
one. Titled An Absent Tale, this book has been rather stubborn to come out but
I am determined to see it through.
SC: Can't wait. Let's take a look at "Behind the Veil" now.
Excerpt Two:
The little café was an embodiment of Paris, offering French pastries, coffee, and Swedish chocolates kept in a glass display, with little boxes allowing people to them take home. Letitia didn’t like chocolate much, but she saw above the display case jars of biscuits, including butterscotch. An indulgence during her meeting would be acceptable, given she would not get time for lunch.
Round metal tables were full of people finishing a midmorning repast, people talked in French and English, the tone pleasant on the ear. The warm lights overhead contrasted with the dim day outside, casting shadows across the room and leaving an intimate setting despite the full café.
Mrs. Quinn had taken a table near the back and was being seated by a waiter when she spied Letitia in the doorway and raised her hand in greeting.
Letitia threaded between the tables, stopping before Mrs. Quinn, who rose with a smile.
“Ms. Hawking,” she said, “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia answered, holding out her hand, which Mrs. Quinn shook. The similarity to Mr. Driscoll was elusive, but there in the faint bone structure was a determined jawline that did not bode for a dissimilar personality. Mr. Driscoll was tall with loose curls of graying auburn, while Mrs. Quinn was a strawberry blonde, far younger than him, and a little plump. She was a far cry from the broad-shouldered mountain that was Mr. Driscoll.
“What do you fancy?” Mrs. Quinn said, gesturing to the chair opposite as she sat.
“Earl Grey tea,” Letitia told the still hovering waiter, “and the butterscotch biscuit in the jar on the counter.”
“Madam does not wish to see the menu?” he clarified, holding it out for her to inspect.
“No, thank you.”
When he’d gone, Mrs. Quinn took a deep breath, smiling at Letitia, who braced herself.
“I’m so sorry about my brother,” Mrs. Quinn began in a rush. Letitia held her tongue but returned the smile with a smaller one of her own, prepared to let Mrs. Quinn ramble until she said something useful.
“You see,” Mrs. Quinn went on, “Alasdair and my husband were close, and there was trouble just before his death. My brother feels terrible about it, but our concern is not, in fact, Mr. Quinn.”
“You said on the phone that this was regarding your daughter?” Letitia prompted, hoping Mrs. Quinn would get to the point. The evasion on the subject from Mr. Driscoll bespoke a serious matter, but not why it should concern Letitia. It was annoying.
“Yes, my Finola,” Mrs. Quinn said, lowering her voice. “She’s sick.”
“Have you summoned a doctor?” Letitia said, holding onto her patience.
“We have…and it’s not a physical condition,” Mrs. Quinn said. “She had an awful turn a while back, when she was with Alasdair—I mean, Mr. Driscoll.”
Letitia stared at her, the overeager woman cagey, her gaze darting about the crowded restaurant rather than resting on Letitia’s face.
“Please forgive me, Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia said, “but this affects me how?”
Mrs. Quinn was silent for a moment, clasping her hands and wedging them between her body and the table, almost as though she were praying. Letitia had a foreboding Mrs. Quinn would not call to an unresponsive god but plead Letitia instead.
“You are a very gifted woman, Ms. Hawking,” Mrs. Quinn said, her voice hushed and wary of nearby tables listening in, “but I wonder, have you ever met anyone else like yourself? Able to…contact the dead, I mean? And the other things—I can only assume that’s why you wear the gloves and veil, so you can hide.”
Letitia flushed at the slight, aware now the woman was far more like her brother than she’d realized. The schooling of her features slipped and she eyed Mrs. Quinn with distaste, and Mrs. Quinn waved her hands before her, mouth open as she gasped for words.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it didn’t occur to me that would be such a rude thing to say.”
Biting words wanted to snap along Letitia’s tongue, but the order arrived and she remained silent. The waiter placed tea and two small biscuits before her, asking if there was anything else before leaving.
Mrs. Quinn had a black coffee and that was all. Letitia was a little surprised at her choice.
It was enough to make her pause when Mrs. Quinn dumped three spoons of sugar in her cup.
Letitia studied her.
Mrs. Quinn’s lips were bright and tinted red, her face powdered, hair in neat curls.
Letitia hadn’t noticed the makeup that covered the swelling of sleepless nights under Mrs. Quinn’s eyes, or the fine tremble in her hands she’d hidden, and her lips weren’t just crimson from an application of tint—she’d been biting them. Little tears in the flesh peppered her skin.
“Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia intoned as Mrs. Quinn stirred her sugar in, “what is it about your daughter you think I can help with?”
The gentle tone Letitia used caused Mrs. Quinn to whisper as though it were a last confession.
“She’s being haunted by a phantom that attacks her in her sleep,” Mrs. Quinn said with despair, “and if you don’t help her, she must go to an asylum.”
