Roses are Stealthy by T. K. Thorne

 

 Writer, humanist,
          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,
       Lover of solitude
          and the company of good friends,
        New places, new ideas
           and old wisdom.

Roses are following me around. 

In my first mystery/thriller/crime/urban fantasy, I named my police officer-witch, "Rose." 

Names are a funny thing. When you give one to a character, it can instantly color them and lead to interesting places.  I don't know why that name popped into my head at the critical moment of creation. I've tried to figure it out:

Was it a subconscious play on my last name, "Thorne"? 

Was I thinking of my grandmother whose name was "Rose"? 

Or was it just that it was fun, because as Rose herself says, 

"'Rose' is a difficult name. For one thing, it made me a target throughout childhood for “smells the same” taunts. For another, it sets up an assumption that fails to describe any part of my nature, conjuring an image of a tiny gray-haired woman. I am neither tiny—standing barefoot at 5’8”—nor gray-haired—dark curls minimally tamed per Birmingham police uniform regulations—and I’m more prickly thorns than soft petals."

A one-armed man gave me the climbing rose in my yard (not that one-armed man, if you are of an age to have watched "The Fugitive"). It is in full bloom as we speak. That rose bush taught me valuable lessons (See "The Rose Wars.")

Rose (the police-witch) got this for a cover:

 

All sorts of roses seem to show up in my life—a painting from a friend, a favorite scarf I never noticed had a black-and-white rose pattern, the two dozen long-stemmed roses my ex-husband (#2) sent me when he wanted to make up. That last one may be cheating since it was long ago. If my current husband sent me roses, I would definitely freak out (you have to read House of Rose to know why.)

Book two of the Magic City series is finally making its debut as House of Stone.

 

Just want to be clear, that is a red diamond in there—in case the universe wants to do that "Law of Attraction" thing, I'm good with it!

Here's a  promo moment for the new novel:

Witches and warlocks abide in Birmingham, Alabama in three ancient Houses—Rose, Iron and Stone. They arrived over a century ago to draw their powers from the abundant ores beneath Red Mountain. Rose Brighton, a Birmingham police detective, is the last witch of House of Rose and possibly the most dangerous thing since the hydrogen bomb. A terrifying encounter with House of Iron has mentally crippled Becca, her best friend. While Becca struggles to find herself, Rose battles to control her own abilities and the supernatural attraction that pulls her to a mysterious, handsome warlock.

 

When magic kicks in at the scene of her first homicide, she learns that her partner—the mentor and friend she depends on—is lying to her, and she is on her own. Unraveling the murder entwines Rose in a web of greed and profit involving a promising new medicine. Someone is willing to kill to keep a cheap drug from the market. Not only do countless lives depend on Rose’s skills as a detective, the fate of a unique race of people facing extinction also rests on her shoulders . . . and some of them are determined to kill her.

 

Praise

“Thorne delivers a spellbinding thriller, an enthralling blend of real-world policing and other-world magic. It’s a wild ride of high stakes that pits the warm humanity of Rose and her friends against chilling powers of darkness in a battle that is both ages old and totally of today.”

—Barbara Kyle, author of The Traitor’s Daughter

“A deftly crafted and riveting read by an author with an impressively deft ability to hold the reader’s rapt attention with her original fantasy novel “House of Rose.” Readers new to her will look eagerly forward to the next title in her new Magic City Stories series. While very highly recommended for personal and community library Contemporary Fantasy Fiction collections, it should be noted that “House of Rose” is also available in a digital book format.”

—Midwest Reviews

“Rookie cop Rose Brighton never imagined that a simple suspect chase into an alley would lead her into dark passages where she would question her definition of reality, her own identity, and whether she was pawn or prey. HOUSE OF ROSE is a gem.”

— DP Lyle, award-winning author of the Jake Longly thriller series

“The life of Birmingham, Ala., rookie cop Rose Brighton, the narrator of this promising paranormal series launch from Thorne (Noah’s Wife), veers into the extraordinary one night. . . . Thorne, a retired captain in the Birmingham PD, grounds the fantasy with authentic procedural details and loving descriptions of the city and its lore. Readers will look forward to Rose’s further adventures.”

—Publishers Weekly

“T.K. Thorne is an authentic, new voice in the world of fantasy and mystery. THE HOUSE OF ROSE blends the realistic details of police work with magic. The result is an explosive story that will keep you on the edge of your seat as Rose learns of her true heritage…and the dangerous powers that are her birthright. Pick up this story—you’ll thank yourself over and over again.”

—Carolyn Haines, USA Today bestselling author of the Sarah Booth Delaney, Pluto’s Snitch, and Trouble the black cat detective mystery series.

“Although “House of Rose” is speculative fiction, a kind of fantasy, T.K. Thorne is so knowledgeable about Birmingham and law enforcement that it is also, truly, a police procedural and a thriller—something for everyone. House of Rose” is the first of a series which should be a hit.”

—Don Nobles, reviewer for Alabama Public Radio

T.K. is a retired police captain who writes Books, which, like this blog, go wherever her interest and imagination take her.  More at TKThorne.com

Breaking the Code of Silence—by T.K. Thorne

Writer, humanist,
          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,
       Lover of solitude
          and the company of good friends,
        New places, new ideas
           and old wisdom.



We are living History, a moment of angst and hope, of isolation and involvement, a time to look deep.

In the beginning of my novel, House of Rose, my police officer heroine shoots a man in the back. I deliberately placed Rose in that situation, because it put her in trauma, and that is how character is built. I wanted readers to experience that from her perspective, to be uncomfortable. Having to pull the trigger is not a comfortable place. I am a former police officer, and, like my fellows, I always dreaded having to make such a decision and having to live with it—right or wrong.

My fictional shooting is a circumstance very far from the blatant lynching of George Floyd, which—along with a dark cloud of other racial encounters and shootings—have stained the badge that so many wear proudly and with honor. For the first time in my memory, law enforcement officers have broken their “code of silence” and stepped forward to voice their outrage, some to walk and pray with protesters.

I am proud of those voices, but I understand they do not make black people feel safe.

I am not black and not trying to imply I understand what it feels like to be, but I am listening and trying to imagine that and to relate it to my own experiences. I am Jewish.

Recently, I watched a documentary on the growth of anti-Semitism in the world, including the U.S., and it awoke in me something that I try to ignore in my daily life, an underlying fear of being different and what might happen to me or those I love because of who I am and what I believe. The outpouring of sympathy and expressions of horror at the Tree of Life massacre did not make me feel safe either.

How are we not beyond this? I yearn for there to be no need for police to have to make awful decisions or even to be armed, only to perform their highest calling—solving problems, protecting and helping people. I yearn for soldiers to put down their weapons and say, “Ain’t gonna study war no more.”

I also research and write about history and know we have moved the needle significantly from the past, but we have not left the darkness behind. It is a chasm looming before us. I fear we are on a precipice as a country and world.

What can I do?

I am a writer, so I am doing what I do—writing about my pain, confusion, my passion for justice. Sometimes I do that through my characters, but sometimes I just have to struggle for the words in my own voice.

T.K. is a retired police captain who writes books, which, like this blog, roam wherever her interest and imagination take her.  Want a heads up on news about her writing and adventures (and receive two free short stories)? Click on image below.  Thanks for stopping by!

When Crime Meets Magic--by T.K. Thorne

   Writer, humanist,

          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,

       Lover of solitude

          and the company of good friends,

        New places, new ideas

           and old wisdom.

The first thing most people say to me when they learn I was a career cop is, “Oh. You don’t look like a policeman.”

This is a good thing because I’m a woman.

Perhaps at 5’3”, I don’t fit the stereotype in their minds. That’s not worrisome to my self-image because during my 20+ years in the Birmingham Police Department, it never occurred to me that I was too small . . . other than the annoying fact that my hands couldn’t fit properly around a gun. Not only did I have to figure out an alternate way to shoot, there were other challenges. In those early Academy days, we had to carry the fifty bullets needed for the firearms qualification tests in our pants pocket and dig them out to reload with one hand (the other held the gun). Tight time constraints for firing and reloading were in place to try to replicate some of the stress of being under fire.

If I pulled more than six bullets at a time out of my pocket, it overwhelmed my small hand’s capacity to manipulate them into position to reload. Bullets tumbled to the ground, making it impossible to reload in time. With practice, I developed the ability to blindly grab exactly six bullets at a time. I’m still proud of that skill, though I’ve yet to find a good use for it.

Since Joseph Wambaugh’s controversial Choir Boys appeared in 1975, the number of law enforcement authors has grown, but they’re still an anomaly, and so I get to surprise with the double whammy of being a retired cop and a writer. I’ve learned to deal with the “You don’t look like a policeman,” reaction with a smile and a simple, “Thank you.” And when I explain my latest novel is about a young police woman in Birmingham, Alabama who discovers she’s a witch, I get an even more fun reaction—“Is it autobiographical?”

Seriously, yes, I get this.  At first, I was too stunned by the question to respond, but now, I immediately shoot back with a straight face, “Totally.”

Even though I don’t claim to be a witch, I did pull on my police background to give authenticity to the story. Challenges lurked, even so. It has been a while since I wore blue, so I had to update department polices and equipment to those of current day, such as putting a body camera on my patrol officers and computers in the cars, but these were minor items. The most critical element was attitude, knowing how people in law enforcement who risk their lives on a daily basis think and react. That said, I certainly don’t espouse writing only “what you know” in that sense. If I did, I’d have a problem dabbling a little magic in with murder and mayhem!

My character, Rose Brighton, is a police officer in the city of Birmingham, Alabama. She’s taller than I am and has no problem holding a gun properly, but Rose has other challenges. Her first clue that her life is about to get complicated comes when she’s chasing a suspect down an alley and he appears to divide into two men, the real suspect, frozen in time, and a shadow version with a gun. From here things go south. She shoots a man in the back, the nightmare of every cop, and can’t explain what really happened. Unraveling that and the mystery of who she really is becomes a high-stakes struggle for survival.

Weaving magic “realistically” into a crime story was a bit like learning to pull exactly six from a pocket full of bullets.  It seemed improbable at first, but maybe learning that skill was not such worthless endeavor after all. Maybe it was a reminder that anything is possible. 

Even a police-witch.

T.K. Thorne’s childhood passion for storytelling deepened when she became a police officer in Birmingham, Alabama.  “It was a crash course in life and what motivated and mattered to people.” In her newest novel, HOUSE OF ROSE, murder and mayhem mix with a little magic when a police officer discovers she’s a witch. 

Both her award-winning debut historical novels, NOAH’S WIFE and ANGELS AT THE GATE, tell the stories of unknown women in famous biblical tales—the wife of Noah and the wife of Lot. Her first non-fiction book, LAST CHANCE FOR JUSTICE, the inside story of the investigation and trials of the 1963 Birmingham church bombing, was featured on the New York Post’s “Books You Should Be Reading” list. 

T.K. loves traveling and speaking about her books and life lessons. She writes at her mountaintop home near Birmingham, often with two dogs and a cat vying for her lap. 

 More info at TKThorne.com. Join her private newsletter email list and receive a two free short stories at “TK’s Korner.”

An Unexpected Dream Come True--by T.K. Thorne

 

  Writer, humanist,
          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,
       Lover of solitude
          and the company of good friends,
        New places, new ideas
           and old wisdom.

It's not something I talk much about, but for many years I was in the closet as a writer. I collected so many rejections, I could have wallpapered my house with them, or at least, my bedroom. Everyone said short stories were the way to break in, but my stories kept getting turned down.  If I dared admit I was a writer to anyone, their next question dashed me down—"Oh, what have you published?" I could only imagine what it would be like to be a real author, signing books for my fans, having a best seller.  I felt like a failure, but I'm pretty stubborn, and I just kept writing and submitting. I wrote five novels before one was published.

When I held that first book in my hands, I cried tears of joy.

My fourth book recently came out and it was still exciting to open that box and hold it in my hand.

Then a few days later, it made its debut at an elegant downtown Victorian mansion. I signed copies read fromg the book, and shared my big night with friends. A dream come true.

While I was signing books, something else was on my mind. Earlier that day, I had taught a creative writing class (as a volunteer) at Maranathan Academy, a non-profit school that takes "critically at-risk students from a variety of challenging circumstancess—bullying and abuse victims, juvenile offenders, poor academic performers, and the health challenged/chronically ill. Students enter Maranathan wounded and looking for a place to belong." [website] 

I started the class three months prior, nervous, afraid I'd just taken on something else to fail at, and that I had nothing to offer these kids. I'd never taught poetry, never taught youth, let alone students with the kind of challenges these faced. That first day was hell, and I almost quit. But something made me go back. The students had no idea how to express themselves or even how to sit still. Every class was a struggle, but, gradually, the students started listening and participating.  

Something amazing had happened in class the day of my signing. The students had written poems that touched on their deepest pain, something I could not have imagined them doing when I started.  Nor, I believe, could they have imagined doing so, much less sharing it with the other students and faculty. Not only had they learned to write poetry, but they felt safe enough to open the door to their true selves.

It was wonderful to be at my long-planned book launch party, don’t get me wrong, but my mind kept drifting back to the classroom and those kids.  Then I looked up and saw three members of the school faculty in line with books and one of my students!  I jumped up and hugged her.  “You're my inspiration,” she whispered in my ear.

That gave me more joy than signing my books or making a best seller list or winning writing awards. That was a dream come true that I hadn't even known to dream.

Chinese proverb:

“If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap. If you want happiness for a day, go fishing. If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune. If you want happiness for a lifetime, help somebody.”

T.K. Thorne’s childhood passion for storytelling deepened when she became a police officer in Birmingham, Alabama.  “It was a crash course in life and what motivated and mattered to people.” In her newest novel, HOUSE OF ROSE, murder and mayhem mix with a little magic when a police officer discovers she’s a witch. 

Both her award-winning debut historical novels, NOAH’S WIFE and ANGELS AT THE GATE, tell the stories of unknown women in famous biblical tales—the wife of Noah and the wife of Lot. Her first non-fiction book, LAST CHANCE FOR JUSTICE, the inside story of the investigation and trials of the 1963 Birmingham church bombing, was featured on the New York Post’s “Books You Should Be Reading” list. 

T.K. loves traveling and speaking about her books and life lessons. She writes at her mountaintop home near Birmingham, often with two dogs and a cat vying for her lap. 

 More info at TKThorne.com. Join her private newsletter email list and receive a two free short stories at “TK’s Korner.”

Stiletto Heels, a Witch and a Deadly Dinner--TK Thorne

   Writer, humanist,

          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,

       Lover of solitude

          and the company of good friends,

        New places, new ideas

           and old wisdom.

I love the idea of vicariously wearing stiletto heels because that is the only way that will ever happen!  What Rose Brighton discovers, however, is they might very well be good for something else.

Rose is a police officer who discovers she’s a witch of House of Rose. She’s received an invitation to dinner from a devastatingly handsome man, a warlock of another House of Iron. All she knows is that someone from his House has been trying to kill her and wipe out her family.

So, of course, she goes—

The Club (pronounced with emphasis on “The”) is a private dinner club atop Red Mountain overlooking the city. Very posh. I wear my black dress and a pair of heels I bought, which are killing me. How do women walk in these things? I let the valet park the car, because I don’t think I could make it all the way across the parking lot.

In spite of the fact that she is dead, I can hear Aunt Alice in my head protesting how dangerous it is to meet Jason Blackwell anywhere. I wonder if any of my family members were prone to do dangerous or impulsive things. If so, I inherited it, and it’s not my fault, right? Besides, I’ve got to have info, and I’m not going to get any sitting on my butt.

So, for the sake of gaining intelligence about House of Iron, which I know nothing about, I am practically standing on my toes trying not to fall on my face. My sympathies to the Chinese girls whose feet were bound in ancient times to keep them small for the aesthetic taste of Chinese men. Thinking about that horrid practice makes me angry. Why am I torturing myself on these stilts for the pleasure of men?

By the time I make it to the private dining room, I’m scowling.

“Ciao, Rose!” Jason Blackwell greets me, rising from his chair at a table by the expansive window. “You are beautiful even when you look ready to eat the first person in your path.”

“I look like that?”

“Indeed.”

“It’s the shoes.”

“Ah.” He pulls out my chair, and I sit . . . gratefully.

A bottle of wine chills in a bowl on a small stand by the table. I’ve seen setups like this in movies, but this is way out of my comfort zone. Jason gestures at the wine. “I took the liberty of ordering. It’s a fine year. Would you like to try it?”

“Yes.”

He lifts a finger and a waiter I didn’t even see glides to our table and opens the bottle, pouring a small amount in Jason’s glass. It would be nice to have a touch of James Bond sophistication with wine at this point, but I can see it’s a French white from the label, and that’s about the extent of my wine knowledge. Fortunately, Jason seems at home with the requirements and takes a sip, savoring it on his tongue for a moment before nodding assent at the waiter, who pours my glass first, then his. I watch all this with fascination, and because I am afraid to look at my date. He almost hurts the eyes.

Suddenly Becca’s voice is in my head: Oh my God, Rose. Does he have a brother?

That breaks the spell and I smile. Thank you, Becca.

“So, has anyone tried to kill you lately?” Jason asks, turning his attention to me.

I laugh and chastise myself for being so easily charmed. This man, I remind myself, may have lived a lot longer than I, despite his youthful looks.

“Actually, I have managed to outwit a sniper since we last saw each other.”

His face, which I am now watching carefully, hardens. “I didn’t know that. He missed, I assume.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?”

Now it is his turn to laugh. “Be easy, detective. I do not know that. It was a chauvinistic guess.”

The waiter sets down a basket that smells heavenly. Jason folds back the white linen to reveal the warm breads inside. “You must try an orange roll, house specialty.”

I bite into it and close my eyes. After I swallow, my tongue finds the bits of crystalized sugar on my lips.

Jason clears his throat. “I’m not sure if I wish to eat or simply watch you eat.”

I open my eyes, my earlobes burning, and snatch at the menu.

I order fish, and he orders lamb. Appropriate. I feel like a lamb stalked by a wolf and wonder if I used enough deodorant to last through dinner.

Jason’s gaze drifts to the huge window that looks down into the valley. “It is a beautiful view, isn’t it?” Below us, the lights gleam like multicolored gems.

“It is.”

“Sometimes,” Jason says, “when I cannot sleep, I look down on this from my bedroom window.”

Warning bells ding in my head. This personal revelation is a bit of intimacy meant to make himself appear more human, a little bait thrown out to gain my sympathy.

 I can play the game as long as I know there is a hook beneath the bait . . . right?

“You have trouble sleeping?” I ask.

“More often than I’d like.”

I wonder what his nightmares are about.

I take another swallow of wine and decide it is time to stop flitting around. “I have a question.”

He arches a brow.

“Who is trying to kill me?” I ask.

For a swiftly passing moment, his face tightens. Anger? Then the lines smooth and he considers me.

“I do not know.”

“You have no idea?”

“No.”

Was there the slightest hesitation before that answer? He takes my hand and lightly rubs a thumb down the inside of my wrist. My pulse jumps. ‘Jump’ is the wrong word, more like catapults.

. . . I take a deep swallow of wine and feel it burning into my chest. “Are we going to have an honest discussion?”

His mouth crooks again. “That would be novel.”

“Answer the question,” I demand.

“Yes. Yes, we are going to have an honest discussion.” He is amused again, which is irritating.

“You know more about who might have tried to kill me than you are telling me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m a detective, remember?”

“I think you are prejudiced against the House of Iron.”

“Maybe.”

He leans back. “I honestly don’t know. At times I’ve thought it could be someone in my House, but I’ve no proof of any kind. Most of my youth was spent in Italy where my father had a villa and a mistress. After his death, I remained there. It is still my primary residence.”

“So who comes to mind when you think that?”

“Let us not play this game. I have no knowledge that my family is involved. If I ever have, I will tell you. I find I have a desire to keep you alive.  Frutti proibiti sono i più dolci.”

“Which means?”

“Forbidden fruit is the sweetest.”

My ears burn again. “Is that a promise, Mr. Blackwell?”

“It is a promise.” He smiles. “Enough of that. Now, let’s talk about you.”

My defenses rear up. “What about me?”

“I take it you are not a social butterfly.”

“Was it the shoes thing?”

He laughs. “In part. You are intriguing, Miss Brighton, though forbidden fruit.”

I sip my own wine. “Forbidden? In what way?”

“House of Iron and House of Rose never . . . intermingle.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Let us call it a strong cultural tradition. Both Houses must marry outsiders.”

His reaction makes me suspect this prohibition is more along the lines of prejudice, and my jaw tightens. “Them” and “us” exist even among the witches and warlocks.

. . .Our food comes at that moment. It is beautifully presented, with a small sprig of cilantro and a lemon wedge cut artfully in a spiral design, and I realize I’m starving. While he talks, I eat, feeling his eyes on me again. I want to believe he had nothing to do with my family’s murder. I can’t explain why. I just do. Maybe because his eyes are so blue.

When our plates are whisked away, I excuse myself from the table to powder my nose and wobble my way down the hall. “If I ever try to wear heels again, just shoot me,” I mumble aloud.

A platinum-haired lady exiting the women’s restroom gives me an odd glance. I smile and point to my ear. She sniffs in disapproval of the concept of people talking on invisible phones in public and walks on with her nose in the air.

Once inside, the first thing I do is kick off the shoes, sit on the toilet seat and rub my arches. I linger just long enough to give my feet a reprieve, wash my hands, and reapply lip gloss. Lipstick requires far too much aim and control. My hair is curling wildly from the moisture outside, but there’s not much I can do about that. I wash my hands and dry them in the curls, a temporary taming technique. Reluctantly, I slip the heels back on.

In the hall, a girl with freckled skin and bony elbows steps carefully around the corner, balancing a tray of glasses. Unbeckoned, a surge of living-green sweeps into me. The girl freezes, and a shadow girl steps ahead of her, slightly out of focus, moving in my direction. I am seeing the future, moments from now.

A portly shadow man exits the men’s room, which is next to the women’s room where I stand, and bumps into the girl, spilling her tray. He turns on her, angry and wobbly, probably drunk. I can’t hear anything he says to her, but it isn’t necessary. The slump of her shoulders reflects his abuse. The whole thing fades, and the girl in my universe or time-line resumes walking toward me.

Without thinking about it, I step to the men’s room and lean against the door. Someone on the other side pushes to get out, but I set my weight into it.

“What the hell?” he slurs from inside.

When the waitress is safely past, I move away from the door, and it bursts open. The man staggers out like carbonated foam pent up in a can. At that moment, the headache that seems associated with seeing into the future hits me, and I just happen to step on his foot with my heel. “Oh, I am so sorry,” I say and leave him cursing and limping in a circle.

These shoes might be good for something, after all.

Click HERE to preorder on Amazon

Click HERE to preorder on BarnesandNoble.com

A retired police captain, T.K. has written two award-winning historical novels, NOAH'S WIFE and ANGELS AT THE GATE, filling in the untold backstories of extraordinary, yet unnamed women—the wives of Noah and Lot—in two of the world’s most famous sagas. The New York Post’s “Books You Should Be Reading” list featured her first non-fiction book, LAST CHANCE FOR JUSTICE, which details the investigators’ behind-the-scenes stories of the 1963 Birmingham church bombing case. Coming in November: HOUSE OF ROSE, the first of a trilogy in the paranormal-crime genre. 

She loves traveling and speaking about her books and life lessons. T.K. writes at her mountaintop home near Birmingham, Alabama, often with two dogs and a cat vying for her lap. More info at TKThorne.com. Join her private newsletter email list and receive a two free short stories at “TK’s Korner.”