The Raven’s Daughter
By- Peggy A. Wheeler
Genre- Fantasy, Adventure
Publication Date-February 29th
A Murdering Monster and a Myth Come to Life
After a police shootout where she killed a man, criminologist Maggie Tall Bear Sloan retires from the force to enjoy peace and quiet in rural California. When sets of young twins are murdered in her town, the local sheriff recruits her to solve the gruesome killings.
But to catch a killer, Maggie either accepts her true nature as a “pukkukwerek” —the shapeshifting monster killer of Yurok legend—or more children will die.
As the manhunt intensifies and her own family is threatened, Maggie will do whatever it takes to keep them safe. Whether she’s awake or asleep dreaming, Maggie is faced with a difficult choice: embrace her heritage—even if it means turning into myth itself—or deny that heritage and lose everything.
About the Author-
Peggy A. Wheeler is published under the names of Peggy A. Wheeler, Peggy Wheeler and Peggy Dembicer. Her non-fiction articles and poetry have appeared in a number of national
magazines and anthologies. She has written for Llewellyn Worldwide. Most recently, she her short story Mama’s Special Stew appears in WOMEN WRITING THE WEIRD II: Dreadful
Daughters, by Dog Horn Press.
Her B.A. in English Literature is from U.C.L.A. Her M.A. in English with a Creative Writing emphasis is from California State University at Northridge. While attending U.C.L.A., Peggy
was one of only twelve students (and the only undergraduate) chosen to study with Robert Pinsky, former Poet Laureate of the United States. She won first prize awards for two of her
poems from an Evergreen Women’s Press nation wide poetry contest. Her poetry received honorable mentions from the judges of a Los Angeles Poetry Festival and The Academy of
American Poets. Peggy’s poem Du Fu was nominated for a Rhysling award for Best Science Fiction Poem. Her manuscript for THE RAVEN’S DAUGHTER was a top ten finalist in the 2014 CCC Great Novel contest.
Social Media Links-
The Ulster Boys, a trio of ginger haired brothers from Derry, County Antrim, Northern Ireland, were the Silverado house band. The family settled in Wicklow when the boys were young, and their mother and father, prominent Irish musicians themselves, made certain their children grew up appreciating their Irish heritage. The boys spoke fluent Gaelic and were skilled on all the traditional Irish instruments. One brother played harp, reed, and uillean pipes. Another was adept on tin whistle, fiddle, bodhrain and bones. The third had become accomplished on the concertina and the tiopan. Sometimes, their cousin, Molly, sat in with them. She played Celtic harp and had a honey-toned voice reminding Maggie of a hybrid between Loreena McKennit and Moira Brennan. Although she loved Molly’s voice, she avoided the Silverado when Molly sat in. It was because of that one night when Maggie walked in the door, and Molly, stopping mid-song, pointed at Maggie. “Fiach Dubh.”
Maggie had just put in her order for a Harp, when Molly stop singing mid-phrase, and in an unnatural voice, high and tinny like a muted brass whistle, she said something unintelligible into her microphone. Maggie got an eerie feeling, and looked over her shoulder both ways. She wasn’t talking to me, was she?
“Fiach Dubh.” Molly’s eyes glazed over, and the mic slipped from her hand to her lap. She pointed at Maggie. The band stopped and her siblings gaped at her, their hands frozen on their instruments. “Molly!” Sean, the brother on the bodhrain said. “Snap out of it. We’re in the middle of a gig. C’mon!”
The bartender handed the Harp to Maggie but she waved him away, and stepped closer to the stage. “Sean, she is talking to me, right? What is she saying?”
“I don’t get it, but she’s saying, ‘Raven.’”
Maggie felt like an ice-cube had lodged in her throat. The room went quiet as a funeral, and all eyes turned on Maggie, who swallowed hard to force down the frigid lump, spun on her foot and pushed her way through the crowd to the door.
The Saturdays when Molly didn’t sing, Maggie could be found at the bar drinking beer and listening to the band. “A hand for the Ulster Lass” they’d say as she walked in, and the patrons applauded as though she were a celebrity. Anyone whose family came from Belfast was a friend of the band from Derry. Maggie felt most at home in the company of these musicians who poured their souls out at The Silverado. But, she always called ahead to make certain Molly wasn’t going to be there.