The
Heart Collector
Auckland
Steampunk Book 1
by
Barbara Russell
Genre:
Steampunk, Romantic Suspense
Auckland,
1884
The
Supernaturals are frightened. Despite being able to do extraordinary
things like teleporting or lighting a fire with a stare, a serial
killer, the Heart Collector, is slaughtering them. He rips their
chests open and removes their hearts.
While
other aristocratic, nineteen-year-old girls spend time dancing,
Isabel trains hard to become an MI7 agent—Military Intelligence
Seventh Division, a crime squad run by Supernaturals. The Heart
Collector murdered her best friend, and enrolling at MI7 is the best
way to help catch the killer.
Isabel
senses other people’s feelings as if they were her owns. But MI7’s
leader is too worried about Isabel’s safety to let her join the
team.
Eager
to prove that her power is valuable, Isabel volunteers to meet Murk,
a dangerous Supernatural man who can turn himself invisible. MI7
desperately tried to recruit him and failed.
She
believes that her power is enough to convince Murk to become an MI7’s
agent and help apprehend the Heart Collector. If he wants to attack
her, his feelings will broadcast his intention, and she’ll be
ready.
What
Isabel isn’t ready for is to fall in love with the man who will
collect her heart.
I’m
an entomologist and a soil biologist, which is a fancy way to say
that I dig in the dirt, looking for bugs. Nature and books have
always been my passion. I was a kid when I read The Lord Of The Ring
and fell in love with fantasy novels.
When
I discovered cosy mystery and crime novel, I fell in love with
Hercules Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. Then I grew up and . . . Nah,
I’m joking. I didn’t grow up. Don’t grow up, folks! It’s a
trap.
PS
I hate gardening. There, I said it. Sorry fellow Kiwis.
GUEST POST
What the characters have to say:
Auckland, New Zealand, 1884
Lady Ermintrude
You don’t mind if I whisper, do you? Hastings Manor is full of
ears, and people’s best pastime is gossip. Thank goodness I’m not
that type of lady. But I have to speak my mind.
My niece Isabel, the current Duchess of Sussex, has gone mad. She’s
accommodating, here in Hastings Manor, street urchins. Street
urchins! From Auckland’s rookery!
Good gracious, I need a sherry. These street urchins don’t even
have decent names and the youngest one, called Trigger—ptf!—spat
on his teaspoon to clean it. The older, the one called Murk, I think
he’s a thief or a murderer. Apparently, he can turn himself
invisible. Invisible! So inappropriate.
Those dark eyes mean trouble, mark my word, but Isabel thinks he’s
charming. Poppycock, I say. I’m sure she’d like to dirty-puzzle
with him. Oh, the horror. But does she listen to me? No one is
listening to me anymore. A bunch of rebels they are. Now, where’s
my sherry?
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