Veil of the Fallen: Sneak Peek

 I am eternally grateful for everyone's support with my (re)writing journey. I still have a long way to go. It feels like I've rebirthed my purpose in life. 

Veil of the Fallen, Book 2 in my Ashen Veil series about the Salem Witch trials and a library technician who gets involved in them, was released on the 8th of this month.

I love my stories. They are my babies. Not everyone will like them, and I don't expect everyone to approve of them--I don't think anyone would be published if we allowed those things to bother us. 

Here's the full first chapter from the first book, Hollowing Veil,, if you are curious:

🌊Chapter One: The Forgotten Name💜

Avalon Prime Library smelled of aged parchment, dust, and the lingering traces of old ink. It was the kind of place where time slowed, where stories—forgotten and forbidden—waited patiently to be unearthed. Eleanor "Eleanor" Aldridge had always found comfort in the library’s quiet embrace.

But today, that comfort was slipping through her fingers.

The Archive Room sat deep beneath the main floors, sealed off from the hum of patrons and the filtered glow of library lamps. Here, the air was thick—still, as if the past itself was watching. Wooden crates and battered file boxes lined the shelves in uneven rows, filled with records that hadn’t seen daylight in decades.

Eleanor exhaled slowly as she knelt before one of the lowest shelves, her gloved fingers brushing over a box with a faded label. The cardboard crinkled as she pulled it free, its contents shifting under the weight of history.

She set it on the nearest table and pried it open.

The scent of aged paper and something faintly metallic curled into the air. Her brow furrowed. Metallic? Ink could sometimes give off a smell, but this was… different. Sharper.

As she sifted through the contents, her fingers stopped on something solid—leather-bound, rough to the touch. She hesitated before drawing it out.

The book was unlike any she had ever seen. Its cover was dark, almost black, with an unnatural sheen that caught the dim light. The leather was cracked but oddly supple, as though it had been stretched over something that still breathed. And then there was the sigil—pressed into the surface like an old scar.

It was a design of intricate, interlocking lines—a spiral at its core, surrounded by sharp, curling edges that almost resembled thorned vines or grasping fingers. At first glance, it seemed abstract, but the longer Eleanor looked, the more it felt alive. The spiral appeared to deepen, twisting inward like a pit with no end.

Something about it sent a chill over her skin.

She traced a hesitant fingertip over the marking, and the moment she did, a faint shudder ran through the book’s surface—like muscle twitching beneath the skin.

Eleanor yanked her hand back, her breath catching in her throat.

"Okay. What the hell was that?"

The air in the room felt different now. Thicker. Charged. Like the space around her was holding its breath. She swallowed hard and, with a shaking hand, forced herself to open the book.

The pages were parchment, their edges crisped with time, but the ink was unnervingly dark—too dark, as though freshly written. Her gaze skated over the words, their elegant strokes flowing together in hurried precision.

Then, she saw it.

A name.

Margaret Hale.

The moment her eyes landed on it, a sharp pressure bloomed behind her forehead. A whisper—**not in the room, but in her mind—**uncoiled like smoke.

"You found me."

The book slipped from her fingers. It hit the table with a dull thud, but she barely registered the sound over the blood rushing in her ears.

She whirled around, pulse hammering. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered—once, twice. The stillness of the room had transformed into something watching.

Eleanor pressed her hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe. "You're being ridiculous."

But the book still lay open, and the name still stared back at her.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Margaret Hale. The name felt familiar, but she knew—knew—she had never read about her before. Had she?

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the book again, flipping through its pages with growing unease. There were scattered journal entries, trial records—accounts of accusations.

TRIAL RECORDS OF MARGARET HALE, SALEM VILLAGE, 1692

February 18, 1692
Statement of Elizabeth Abbott: "She walks at night, alone. I have seen her whispering to the trees, to the wind. The children wake screaming, speaking of shadows that bear her face. When I accused her, she smiled. Tell me, what good Christian woman smiles when called a witch?"

March 3, 1692
Court Proceedings: "Margaret Hale, you stand accused of witchcraft, of consorting with the Devil, and of practicing arts forbidden by God’s law. How do you plead?"

Margaret Hale: "I plead to nothing that is false."

Judge: "The town has spoken against you. You were seen with the afflicted girls, whispering words unknown."

Margaret Hale: "Do you condemn a woman for kindness? If a child cries, should I not soothe them? If the wind howls, should I not close my door? I have harmed no one."

March 21, 1692
Witness Testimony, Abigail Price: "I saw her shape in my room as I slept. A great black shadow that breathed cold into my bones. My mother woke me, and there was no one there. But I know it was her. Margaret Hale. She has cursed me."

Eleanor blinked rapidly. She could barely catch her breath, her heart a wild drum against her ribs.

The text swam in front of her. Words twisted, curling at the edges like burning parchment. She clutched her head as the pressure behind her forehead intensified.

Then—

The world lurched.

The Archive Room vanished.

Salem, February 1692

Smoke. The sharp sting of burning tallow and damp wood filled the air. The room was packed—faces pale with fear, eyes glittering like carrion birds.

Margaret stood in the center; wrists bound with coarse rope. She could feel the fibers biting into her skin, raw and red, from hours of restraint.

"You are accused of witchcraft," the magistrate’s voice thundered.

She lifted her chin. "I repent nothing."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"You consort with the Devil."

Margaret exhaled through her nose. "You fear what you do not understand."

The girls at the far side of the room whimpered, clutching at each other, their bodies twitching with supposed affliction.

One collapsed.

"She torments me!" Abigail Price shrieked, her voice breaking into sobs. "She sends her spirit into my room at night!"

Margaret clenched her teeth. Lies. Lies, all of it.

But lies had power. And she was surrounded by people willing to believe them.

With a gasp, Eleanor snapped back to herself.

She staggered, gripping the table to keep from collapsing. Her breath came ragged, sharp. She was back in the Archive Room, but the sensation of Margaret’s rope-burned wrists still lingered on her skin.

The book lay open in front of her, its pages unmoving.

And yet, in the silence, she swore she could hear a voice—soft, knowing.

"You are me. And I am you."

Eleanor clutched her chest.

She had no idea what she had just awakened.

But she was terrified to find out.