Title: Frog Hollow
Author: Savannah Blevins
Genre: New Adult Fantasy
It’s a sign. No one is safe.
At just twenty-two years old, Wilhelmina Daniels inherits a house, a family of eclectic witches, and a death sentence on the same day. As revealed by Reid Thomas, her shy but smoldering neighbor, Wilhelmina is a descendent of the Innocent—a line of gifted women who are to be admired, feared, and above all else, protected.
Death, mayhem, and The Haunted…
The murder of Wilhelmina’s mother—the family matriarch—sends the small town’s rumor-mill into a frenzy. Suspicions fall on The Haunted, a rival force with dual personalities, one of them being Julien Cote.
It’s difficult to believe the charming boy has a sexual deviant with a hankering for violence lurking inside.
Rumor has it Julien can seduce an angel out of her wings. Wilhelmina doesn’t have wings, but if he calls her cheri d’amour one more time, she’s liable to lose something of equal importance—her heart. But with Reid hailing from her clan, will she stay close to her own, or venture into the unknown?
Even a powerful spell can’t seal Julien’s fate…
Julien knows an incantation that just might help Wilhelmina to solve her mother’s death, but when an unidentified stalker is spotted spying in her house, her family is certain it’s Julien’s dangerous alter ego come out to play.
Wilhelmina must decide—is risking her life worth the possible heartbreak of discovering the truth about Julien’s fate and her mother’s death? Or will she cast aside her desire for Julien and vow her love to Reid.
Leaving her past forever buried in the murky depth of…Frog Hollow.
I wasn’t prepared for a move of this magnitude. I barely manage to wear matching socks and locate a semi-clean coffee mug most days, let alone drop everything to switch coastlines.
If I had any sanity at all, I would have sold this gnat-infested place and stayed in Sacramento. Who lives in a place called Frog Hollow, anyway?
However, I’m here, half naked, hopped up on sweet tea, and too impossibly bullheaded to ever admit defeat. I’d successfully hauled in seven boxes, all amply labeled kitchen, before I noticed the treacherous spiral staircase and realized that maybe I should have sought out reinforcements. Big and brawny reinforcements.
An ill feeling washes over me. It’s not the tea. It’s too familiar. Always present, bubbling right beneath the surface. The sting of loneliness never really goes away. I have a slew of friends back in Sacramento, even some who were nice enough to help me pack and call to make sure I hadn’t broken down in Death Valley or gotten caught in that round of tornados terrorizing the plains. I don’t have anyone I would call family or who I can count on to show up in middle-of-nowhere Appalachia and help haul a bed frame up a flight of stairs.
I set the jug of tea on the front step and stare back at the Victorian monstrosity that is now my home. Sure, I’d seen pictures of it in the paperwork the lawyer sent me, but they hadn’t done it justice. A photo could never capture the life this house projects in its chipped bricks, ivy-clad chimney, and crescent moon carved in the rustic front door.
I feel like Marty McFly, transported through time, back to its prime. I imagine it perfectly, a clandestine retreat, tucked away from the rest of the world. When I pulled in the driveway this morning, I was instantly mesmerized. A billowing fog lifted through the carved valley, like souls escaping to the heavens. It was quiet. Peaceful. The house stood like a rock amongst sand, powerful and everlasting. This place held secrets like a love note clenched tight to your chest. That’s when I knew the gnats and heat would never matter, because this place, jaded by so much loss and pain of its own, is where I belong.
My long mess of blonde hair grows damp against my shoulders, and my brow, sprinkled with perspiration, starts to burn. The heat is only getting worse at this point in the day. Heaving a sigh, I straighten my worn shoulders, ready to face the daunting task in front of me. Having grown up in California, I’m accustomed to heat, but there is something about the air here that makes it so much worse. Maybe it’s the elevation, or maybe it’s the crippling fear of the unknown that causes the heavy feeling in my chest.
I see the staircase through the open door, and it mocks me.
A fresh start. A pilgrimage for sanity. I used every cliché in the book to convince myself to accept the offer supplied to me by the pudge-nosed lawyer governing my mother’s will. If I’m going to do this, finally seek out the mystery to my very existence, then it’s time I stop pretending I’m just another sun-kissed California debutante who got lost in the woods.
I, Wilhelmina Daniels, am something more.
Savannah was born in Hyden, Kentucky. She received her M.S in Speech Language Pathology from The University of Mississippi in 2009. She’s been writing since the early age of nine when she begged her parents for a typewriter for Christmas.
She now lives in Corbin, KY with her husband of eight years, John, and their two wonderful daughters, Delilah and Gracie.
When she isn’t working, or running after her kids, she spends her free time traveling the country with her husband. There is nothing better than a day of football in the grove, a late night of basketball at Rupp Arena or slapping the glass to celebrate another Washington Capitals goal.
She is a strong believer that with enough hard work and determination you can accomplish anything.