Temple of Indra Series
Book Two
Rachael Stapleton
Genre: Mystery, Adventure, Romance
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Date of Publication: February 3rd, 2015
Cover Artist: Rebecca Boyd
Book Description:
As a librarian, Sophia Marcil loved reading, especially books about ancient curses and reincarnation, but she never imagined the legend of the Purple Delhi Sapphire was true until she inherited it and was transported back to a past life where she was murdered. Now she knows that not only is reincarnation real, but so is the devil’s magic locked inside the precious gem. Just as she’s about to tell her boyfriend Cullen about it, he proposes with an engagement ring made from a piece of the very sapphire that’s cursed her. Reeling from the shock and surrounded by his family, she allows him to place it on her ring finger. As soon as it touches her skin, she feels herself being wrenched back in time.
Before she knows it, she’s wandering the hallway of an old Victorian house in the body of her great aunt. Unfortunately, her nemesis has also reincarnated in 1920—as one of her family members. Sophia struggles to locate the Purple Delhi Sapphire in time to prevent the deaths of those she loves, but she fails and returns to her present-day life, to the precise moment she left, with a deep understanding that her killer’s soul is also tied to the sapphire and every life she has, he is resurrected as someone close to her.
Her stalker ex-boyfriend Nick seems like a prime candidate this time but she’s convinced she’s a step ahead of him, thanks to a tip from a medium, she knows that if she uses the magic of the stone correctly she can trap Nick’s soul in the sapphire and save herself. But when Nick is murdered, she finds evidence that has her questioning everything she thought she knew.
Is Cullen husband material or is history doomed to repeat itself?
Book Trailer
Amazon
Excerpt:
Curse of
the Purple Delhi Sapphire
Excerpt
Fog descended, eerily beautiful despite the
dingy residue it seemed to be composed of—producing an unwelcome metallic taste
in my mouth. I lagged behind, pulling my scarf tight around my shoulders and
taking in the outline of the buildings, which now looked even more Gothic and
ghostly. They gave me a chill, or maybe it was just the weather. I had
snowmobiled and skied on the frostiest of Canadian mornings and hardly ever
felt the cold; I even slept with the windows open at times. But this cold was
different from anything I had experienced. It cut to the core.
Of course I’d read about the smog of old
London, when a million coal fires polluted the atmosphere, but the sound of the
fog horn now blaring from the river made it real.
“Maggie,” Emily said with a cough. “We should
duck into one of these places. We’ve got a pea-souper rolling in.”
Maggie’s soon-to-be mother-in-law gave a gasp.
“A tavern is not a suitable place for a group of women and children.”
“Yes, I realize that but it’s bloody—sorry,
it’s terribly bad weather out here—” Emily stopped. “It’s going to get worse
and—”
“Mama, I’m cold,” Gigi whined. I gave her arms
and shoulders a little rub to increase the circulation.
“What is this?” Marjorie asked through a
muffled hand.
“Pollution from the—” I began and then clamped
my hand over my mouth.
“No use chit-chatting. We should be there
already. Let’s pick up our feet, shall we?”
Maggie, who was clearly uncomfortable, made a
vague gesture with her hands and followed the formidable woman down the sidewalk.
As the ladies turned a corner, a man in a
trench coat caught my eye. He’d been right behind us four blocks ago, and
earlier in the day he’d loitered outside the dress shop. His fedora rode low
over his eyes at all times and he looked to be about 5’11", coincidentally
the same build as Eugene. I kept my eye on him for the next several blocks
before he slipped behind a great stone church. I looked up and began to feel
uneasy as I realized I’d now lost sight of the gang. In the growing fog, the
iron fence surrounding it looked like rows of jagged black teeth. Don’t panic,
I said to myself. Eventually I would catch up to them or come to a place I
recognized and everything would be all right. I knew the name of the hotel we
were staying in. The problem was that I was rapidly being swallowed up into the
murk, and it was impossible to read the street signs which had now vanished
into the fog above my head.
That’s when I noticed the slow, steady rhythm
of footsteps behind me—keeping pace with mine. I turned but couldn’t see
anyone. Probably just someone else out lost in this godforsaken weather, I told
myself. Or the footsteps could only be a strange echo produced by the fog. I
started walking again, stopped suddenly, and heard the footsteps continue another
couple of beats before they too stopped. I had no choice but to keep going, so
I increased my pace. Thankfully I glimpsed Marjorie’s skirt disappearing behind
a building and took off on a terror in an effort to catch up, my mind conjuring
the sort of thing that happened in the fog in some of Gigi’s old mystery
novels. I rounded the corner onto a cobblestone side street and ran smack into
something hard.
Palming my forehead, I realized the smog didn’t
hang quite as low here, or maybe the cool breeze off the Thames River pushed it
away. The bad news was, aside from the offending lamp post, the street lay
empty. I looked up and noticed a sign that hung atop an old storefront,
advertising rare books. Maggie must have reasoned with her mother-in-law and
pulled the gang indoors. No better place than one filled with books.
Wandering into the shop through a brass-studded
wooden door, I smiled to myself, taken in by the familiar smell of grass mixed
with a hint of vanilla, my happy place. Books were a constant in my life, and
this unmistakable smell always made me feel at home. The bell over the door
jingled and a slender man of sixty with large brown eyes, a long nose, and a
full gray mustache appeared, climbing down from the rolling ladder behind the
counter.
He smiled at me as if he recognized a fellow
bibliophile.
“Good afternoon, miss. May I help you?”
I looked around the quaint little shop. A
polished table sat empty in the corner, offering up only a delicate brass lamp.
Shelves lined the room and were packed with books at every turn but the store
was also empty, unless Marjorie and the gang were hiding in an alcove. “Did a
group of women come in here?”
“No, dear,” he replied and wrinkled his brow.
Turning to go back out the door, panic slammed
into my chest. The man in the navy blue trench coat had followed me. He stood
at the corner of the street, leaning against the wall, casually smoking and
efficiently blocking my only way out. Half expecting him to turn around and
spot me, my mouth went dry.
“Is everything all right, miss?”
Swiping a hand over my forehead, I brushed back
a clump of sweaty hair. “I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone, that’s all.”
The shopkeeper stood still, watching me, his
face creased with concern. Hastily I retreated, circling the room, studying the
shelves and looking for a back door.
He followed me to where I stood browsing an
older collection of Shakespeare. He pulled out a nineteenth-century edition of
Twelfth Night and handed it to me. I flipped through the pages, to be polite,
before handing it back.
“Something specific you fancy?”
“I’ll just take a look around on my own,” I
said, then noticed for the first time the book in his possession.
“What’s that?” I asked, squinting; his hand
covered the spine.
“Oh, this?”
I followed him and he laid the book open on the
counter, turning it sideways so we could both look at it. The scent of dust and
pages that time had long since begun to degrade drifted out of it. It was the
smell of the book I’d found in the library in my own time and seen prior to
that in the alchemist’s study.
“It’s a collection of spells I acquired at an
estate sale in Prague a few years ago.” He flipped the thin pages until he came
to a poem printed neatly in the center of the leaf. “It looks to me like a book
of magic,” he added, grinning.
A familiar feeling twisted within me.
Could it be?
About the Author:
Rachel Stapleton spent her youth cultivating a vivid imagination inside the book lined walls of an old Victorian library where she consumed everything from mystery to biography, creating magical worlds, hidden elevators, and secret spiral staircases. At sixteen, she penned a column for the local newspaper and in 2006, wrote her first book featuring an adventurous librarian.
She lives in a Second Empire Victorian with her husband and two children in Ontario and enjoys writing in the comforts of aged wood and arched dormers. She is the author of The Temple of Indra’s Jewel and is currently working on a third book in the Temple of Indra series.
Author Links:
Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads
Tour giveaway
10 E-Copies of The Temple of Indra’s Jewel. (The first book in the series.)
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