Summary from Goodreads: Ally Watson struggles to live with the choices she made, the worst of which resulted in her soul mate's death. Michael’s sacrifice to save the girl he loved may have reversed the Apocalypse, but not the permanent damage inflicted by living with his loss.
Ally begins a journey where she soon discovers that death is not always the end, but sometimes the very beginning. With old friends, she journeys to the Nosferatu Nation where she meets with new alliances willing to help her in her quest to defeat the Devourer. At every turn, Ally unearths secrets that threaten to destroy those she loves.
The second installment of The Vulcan Legacies series will put Ally to the ultimate test, forcing her to face her fears and the true destiny she will fulfill as Azrael, the Seraph of Death.
Book One in this series:
Ally rubbed her hands in circular motions over the blanket. It
was like if she rubbed the blanket enough times, Michael would
appear in the doorway, smiling at her. He would be alive. Her chest
throbbed and ached, like there was a cavity in her heart, the tissue
slowly eroding, exposing something that was meant to stay protected
because otherwise the bareness was too painful.
Ally eased herself back, laying her head down on Michael’s
pillow. The Ravenscraft sisters must have slept in the other bedrooms
because Ally could still smell his cologne. Tears migrated to the
corners of her eyes, their warmth spilling over her lids and traveling
down her cheeks. Her tears fell on his pillow. Through the haze in her
eyes, she caught a shimmer on his nightstand, the glass in a picture
frame gleaming in the moonlight stealing through Michael’s curtain.
Ally wiped at her eyes and sat up. She took the frame in her
hands and her heart sank in agony. The picture of her former self
staring back at her from within the frame was cruel. He had kept a
picture of her close to him, right where he slept. The photo was black
and white, a close-up of Ally, eyes cast down, a hand reaching up to
tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Agony soon turned to anger as Ally grasped the wooden frame
in her fingers. She began rocking herself back and forth, her pain and
anger swelling so high she finally threw the picture against the
adjacent wall. Glass shattered and rained down, the frame broken.
Ally stood up, but quickly sank to her knees, shards of glass
cutting into her. She sobbed and cried until there was nothing left. She
picked up the broken frame and brushed off the remaining slivers of
glass. As her fingers moved over the picture, she could feel carvings
on the side of the frame. Removing her photo and setting it off to the
side, she turned the frame over.
“Please, if anyone is listening, if anyone can hear me, let me
die,” Ally whispered through trembling lips as she rubbed her fingers
over the letters carved undoubtedly with Michael’s pocket knife that
said, “Ally Watson Blackwell.” He had cared deeply enough for her
that he secretly gave her his name. She set the broken frame down and
jumped a little at the feel of something downy brushing against her
Ally picked up a black feather, the tip between her fingers.
Suddenly she heard the soft tune of a harmonica. Her flesh erupted in
goosebumps. With one hand clutching the black feather and her other
hand on the floor, she pushed herself up. Navigating her way through
Michael’s house quietly, Ally followed the music. She had heard the
She halted at the front door. Whoever was playing the
harmonica was outside on the porch. The music stopped. She froze.
The door swung open as a familiar voice said, “Come on out,
That voice. It triggered a memory. That tune. A mix of
Southern soul drifting through metal reeds. She recognized it.
Stepping out onto the porch, she glanced over at the man
relaxing in Grandma Blackwell’s rocking chair.
“You….” Ally said in a whisper as she stared at the old man,
the same one from Lou’s House of Blues.
At once Miss Elma came running up the stairs, skidding to a
stop at the old man’s feet.
“Miss Elma! It’s good to see you again, girl,” he said, his
fingers gliding through her black fur. “Guards from the Gates, such
“Who are you?” Ally asked.
“I am what I am,’ he said, his gaze sliding over and resting
directly on Ally.
Ally jumped. There were no irises, only pools of blazing white
fire where eyes should have been. “You were the man from
Brunswick, at the bar. Why are you here? What are you?” A torrent of
questions spilled from her mouth. She looked at the old man, his aged
features covering up what lay under his skin.
“His blood cried out to me. The balance has shifted,” he said,
his voice now a deep baritone.
Ally fell, her face down, nose to the porch. She trembled. “Are
you the Authority?”
“My dear child, lift your eyes to mine. Do not be afraid,” he
Ally lifted her head. She felt a warm wet trickle at the corner
of her mouth. She brushed her finger over her bottom lip. She stared
down at her finger, its tip smeared with a trace of blood.
“I’m dying,” Ally said, slowly standing erect.
About the Author
By age 5, Sasha Hibbs' favorite movie was Gone With the Wind. By age 12, she completed her 7th grade book report on the sequel, Scarlett. By 18, she met and married her very own Mr. Rhett Butler and as it turns out, she never had to worry about going back to Tara to win the love of her life back. Fortunately, he stuck with her.
With a love of all things paranormal, the ambiance of the South with its gigantic antebellum mansions and canopies of Spanish moss, and a love for her husband’s rich storytelling of blacksmiths and the mythology surrounding their origins, it wasn’t long until the world of her debut novel, Black Amaranth, was born.
When not working her day job as a nurse, you can find Sasha dreaming of her next beach trip, reading the latest YA novel, and drinking more white chocolate mocha than she should.
Sasha lives in mountainous West Virginia with her husband, Tim, and their two daughters, Aeliza and Ava. She is currently hard at work on book two in The Vulcan Legacies series.