The Daemoniac by Kat Ross

by admin on Dec 11, 2017 in Random Picks via Best Books

The Daemoniac by Kat Ross

Sherlock Holmes meets The X-Files in Book #1 of this paranormal mystery series!

It’s August 1888, just three weeks before Jack the Ripper will terrorize Whitechapel, and another murderer is stalking the streets of New York. His handiwork bears the hallmarks of a demonic possession—but amateur sleuth Harrison Fearing Pell is certain her quarry is a man of flesh and blood. And she hopes to make her reputation by solving the bizarre case before the man the press has dubbed Mr. Hyde strikes again.

From the squalor of the Five Points to the high-class gambling dens of the Tenderloin and the glittering mansions of Fifth Avenue, Harry follows the trail of a remorseless killer, uncovering a few embarrassing secrets of New York’s richest High Society families along the way. Are the murders a case of black magic—or simple blackmail? And will the trail lead closer to home than she ever imagined?

Targeted Age Group:: YA and adult
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 3 – PG-13

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I've been a huge fan of the Arthur Conan Doyle stories since I was a kid, so I knew I wanted to write a twist on the Holmes canon with a female lead and an American setting. I thought it would be fun to make Doyle a minor character in the book and the more I read about his life, the more it inspired the plot itself. He was an avid Spiritualist and member of the venerated Ghost Club in London, but he steadfastly avoided any hint of the supernatural in the Holmes stories. Take "The Hound of the Baskervilles," probably his most famous novella. The ancestral curse! The hound from hell! Of course, the solution to the puzzle turns out to be much more mundane. But I loved that dynamic and wanted to write something that left readers wondering a little at the end. Do you take the side of the rational explanation? Or do you prefer the darker, occult solution?

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The main character, Harrison Fearing Pell, was one of my favorites to write, but I had to think about her quite a bit to get it right. The thing about the Holmes stories is that they're narrated by Dr. Watson, who's a normal human being. I can't imagine them working at all if they were narrated by Holmes himself. What reader could relate to him? And yet I wanted my story to be first-person from Harry's point of view. So I finally decided that Harry's older sister Myrtle is in fact the genius (just as Mycroft Holmes is supposed to be even more brilliant than Sherlock). Harry's extremely bright but not superior or infallible. If anything, she's self-effacing and struggling to escape her sister's shadow. Then there's the question of trying to operate independently as a young woman in the 1880s. I take a fairly light hand with that, but Harry does run into plenty of danger and prejudice based on her sex.

Book Sample
The scream hung in the air, then stopped abruptly. As though the person's air supply had been suddenly cut off.

I looked up and down the street, but there was no one else in sight. The carriage had vanished, turning the corner perhaps. Never was I so glad to have followed Myrtle's advice. I rummaged around in my bodice and retrieved the pistol. The grip was slippery with perspiration, but its metallic weight was reassuring in my hand as I took a deep breath and entered Central Park at the Seventy-Ninth Street transverse.

I ran down the winding road, trying not to trip over my skirts. I had been to the park many times with John and his brothers, but always during the daytime. We would bring a picnic lunch and they would play rugby on a large lawn called the Green, while I read a book or just lay on my back watching the clouds. I knew the Green was a bit to the south near a ladies' restaurant called the Casino. I was less familiar with this area.

Newly installed electric lamps illuminated a fork in the road. I caught a glimpse of the lake through the trees to my left, not the water itself but the red and blue lights of the hired pleasure boats. We skated there last winter, John, Connor and I, before the blizzard. When the ice was frozen solid, all the omnibuses and horse cars would fly white flags and word would spread that "the ball is up in the park!"—meaning the red ball had been hoisted on the Arsenal and it was safe to skate.

Connor wasn't living with us yet, but John had taken an immediate fancy to him. I think he enjoyed showing Connor new things, things he couldn't even have dreamt of before he tried to rob Myrtle and ended up getting a job instead. I smiled at the memory. A frosty January morning, just after New Year's. The sky was a lustrous, bottomless blue. We'd gone to one of the nearby cottages afterwards and sipped hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire. John told a ghost story, something about the restless souls of smallpox patients haunting the Gothic-style hospital on Ward's Island after its closure two years ago…

All was silent. I began to wonder if what I thought was a scream had actually been wild laughter.

I paused at the entrance to a heavily wooded area that could only be the Ramble. In the sunlight, it was reputed to be one of the most beautiful parts of the park, a rustic paradise of gurgling brooks and wildflowers.
Tonight, it just looked dark and impenetrable.

"Hello?" I called, feeling idiotic. "Does anyone need help?"

Not even a cricket replied.

I was turning to leave when I heard a noise. It had a wet, squelching quality that made my skin crawl. With very little effort, my mind conjured up the image of a deer carcass being dressed with a sharp knife.

I switched the pistol to my left hand and wiped the sweat off my right palm. Then I returned the pistol to my right and cocked it.

"You really are a fool, Harry," I muttered.

I began to walk cautiously deeper into the Ramble. Trees laden with vines pressed close on both sides. The lights of the main thoroughfare faded behind me. I tried to be stealthy, but my dress rustled like a pile of autumn leaves with every step. Then the breeze died, leaving an airless void. Stinging beads of sweat popped out on my forehead and rolled into my eyes.

It was so dark that I tripped over the body.

All I knew was that my left foot caught on something in the middle of the path. I pinwheeled my arms and tried to recover, but when I looked down and saw the white flash of skin gleaming in the moonlight, I let out a shriek and went arse over teakettle, as Connor would say, into the undergrowth. The pistol flew from my hand.

I lay there, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. My chest felt like a locked door with no key. My eyes still worked though. And what I saw lifted all the hair on my body straight up.

A rough stone wall crossed the path ten paces away. It was broken by a narrow archway, through which the night poured black as pitch. But something even darker stood just within the shadow of the arch. Watching me.

I groped for the pistol but my hands came away empty. Empty and wet.

I was lying in a pool of blood.

The whole scene was so surreal, my mind simply rejected it. This couldn't be happening. Not an hour ago I was dancing with John in a brightly lit ballroom filled with people. Maybe not the nicest people, but still, regular people.

How easy it is in New York City to tumble down the rabbit hole. It just takes a few wrong steps. One or two poor decisions. The abyss is always waiting for the unwary. A hidden signal, and the trapdoor suddenly opens beneath your feet, dropping you into a lightless pit, a charnel house like the one in the Benders' cellar.

A beam of moonlight caught the glint of metal in the archway. Just a glimmer, but it was at about the height where you'd expect to see a knife if a person held it dangling point-down at their side.

I watched, breath still trapped in my throat like a wild animal clawing to get out, as the blade moved gently back and forth. A grotesque waggling gesture. Like some demented children's rhyme.

Round and round the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought it was all in fun…

My fingers scrabbled frantically through the dirt.

The blackness within the archway looked bottomless, infinite, like a hole torn in the fabric of the universe. The words Mrs. Rivers uttered at the séance, in that horrible chorus of overlapping voices, came back to me:

Abyssus abyssum invocat

Deep calls to deep

The figure shifted, moving slowly into the moonlight. I saw a pale hand, and a knife as long as my forearm, mottled heavily with some dark substance. The glint of a brass button at the cuff.

I clenched my teeth and drew a ragged stream of air into my lungs. It wasn't enough.

You're going to die here, Harry, I thought dimly. And the killings will just go on and on and on….

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