Amazing from start to finish - Gina-An Amazon Reviewer
"Widdershins deserves five stars for beautiful writing, character development, plot twists, knowledge in subject matter, and most important: Originality. I have no doubt the sequel “Solitary Fire” will rise above the bar Widdershins has set." -August 19, 2018
The Christina Lafage Chronicles Book 1
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Widdershins introduces a strong female character in the horror genre-Christina Lafage, an eighteenth century French girl who sells her soul for the fierce power of the black arts.
Christina's world is filled with spell casting, black magic, distant lands and intense power.
The story unfolds with Christina's introduction into the black arts by a mysterious benefactor that she meets in a wooded grove. This benefactor, Madame Duchamp, takes Christina under her wing and teaches her to use the powers of the occult and bend the laws of nature to her will as they provide spells and services for the wealthy aristocrats of Paris.
At first she struggles with her newly acquired power and with her own feelings of doubt and apprehension until a grave situation forces her to conquer fear and doubt.
Christina's power continues to grow and explodes into an electrifying series of events that lead her to Egypt where her power is put to the ultimate test.
Sample Part of Chapter One
Welcome to a meeting of ink and paper meant to chronicle the life of one who is damned. By no means is this a confession or a warning. I have already confessed everything to those responsible for my imprisonment and now await my journey to the gallows. I must say I feel no remorse or guilt for any of my actions because I do not feel I have done wrong. I will meet death with head held high and hand extended to accept his eternal dance.
My name is Christina Lafage and I die as a member of the wealthy upper class but I have not always been so. I was born unto poor parents in a small village outside Paris. As a child I would often see members of the nobility pass through our village wearing fine silks and jewels, riding on magnificent stallions or in gilded carriages. As I watched them I always felt I belonged with them rather than the poor peasants of the village.
I asked my mother as a child of six if we would ever be members of the nobility and have fine clothes and ride in gilded carriages to which she replied, “Young child, you have much of the world to learn. We are of the poor peasant class and of that class we shall remain.” But somehow I knew that another destiny awaited me.
Now our village had always been very religious but I never quite understood prayer. We prayed yet we were still poor; we prayed before meals but always had little to eat. I had asked my mother why we prayed because it seemed we were never heard. “God does not grant earthly riches but rewards us in Heaven,” was her reply.
“But what about while we are here, why should we suffer so?” I asked.
“You are too smart for your own good and too young to worry about such things,” she replied. This was not a sufficient answer for me, but she would discuss it no further and told me that I should pay more attention at mass.
We attended mass faithfully but quite frankly I found the whole ceremony rather tedious. Colorless rituals performed by celebrants with no emotion did not appeal to me at all, but when I criticized or questioned the ritual, I was sent to my room and told to pray for forgiveness, but my prayers were empty and unemotional.
I had begun to feel estranged from everyone and a bit saddened that I did not feel the same way everyone else did at mass. They seemed to draw joy and fulfillment from an experience which left me confused and unmoved. The only time I did enjoy going to church was when a member of our village had passed away and the church became a home to the deceased while a requiem mass was being performed. I held a profound interest in the funeral rite and the ceremony where the deceased was laid to rest. I found solace in the somber mood and the melancholy dirges the congregation sang as the lifeless star of the production lay at the front of the congregation. The forlorn rhythms of the music aroused something deep within me so much that I actually felt as if I was part of the dismal hymns and chanting. The rhythms would often linger in my memory and I would sing them to myself as we accompanied the deceased to the churchyard for interment. As I would watch the body being lowered into the ground, I wondered what the other occupants of the cemetery looked like after being buried for so long. I had never seen a decayed body and could only imagine what a decomposed corpse looked like. I tried to envision how they looked in life as I read the inscriptions on the tombstones and imagined their flesh withering away eventually exposing bare bones. I loved the time I spent in the churchyard, especially when no other living soul accompanied me. I felt at home in the solitude among the weathered tombstones and stone crypts that protruded from the ground as if they had sprung forth from the very bowels of the earth.