Yes, plural! I've got three new Doyle Witch novellas coming out this summer, and am so excited about the covers that I've got to share them now! Each novella has its own complete mystery. Each features a different sister. But there's a dangerous magical thread that connects all three... Click here to Tweet this! #TheWitchesofDoyle #novellas

Fate, my 6th Doyle witch mystery, is going on a blog tour starting November 8th! The tour includes witchy guest posts from Jayce, interviews, and yes... reviews. (Fingers crossed those go well.) AND... a giveaway! Here's the schedule! November 8 – The Pulp and Mystery Shelf – SPOTLIGHT November 9 – Books a Plenty Book Reviews – REVIEW November 10 – I Read What You Write – REVIEW November 11 – Brooke Blogs – SPOTLIGHT, GIVEAWAY November 12 – Hearts & Scribbles – SPOTLIGHT Nove

Since Samhain (known to many as Halloween) is the witch’s version of New Year’s Eve, it's a great day to remove all the old, stagnant energy in your home and make way for the new. Here’s how I psychically clear and bless my house before my sisters and I start our own Witch's Tea party. (And with all that's been going on in Doyle, trust me, we need a good clearing). You’ll need: Sage (either a leaf or a bundle) Something to light the sage with A small plate to catch any ashes

TOM TARRANT – DOYLE TIMES “We perform traditional circus arts with a hint of magic.” Beginning this weekend, Doyle audiences can feel the magic up close. The Circus of Impossible Things is making its way to Doyle. The Circus of Impossible Things provides spine-tingling chills and death-defying acrobatics. Audiences will be treated to an evening of creepy clowns, bawdy humor, illusionists, burlesque elements, and dance, all wrapped in a package of fantastic costumes and specia

Amazon | Apple Books | B&N | Kobo | Google Play Something wicked this way comes… Witch Jayce Bonheim has spent the last four months waiting for a horde of dark magicians to come to town. Now, they’ve arrived. And they’re bigger and badder than this ex-party girl could have imagined, wreaking havoc wherever they go. When a murder rocks her small town, Jayce must stop the chaos. Battling her way through dark spells and past regrets, this Doyle witch struggles to divine her true

ManyBooks.net readers voted Bound, book 1 in the Doyle Witch trilogy, August's best paranormal book of the month! So thank you, ManyBooks! They write: "Bound by Kirsten Weiss is the first book in the Witches of Doyle series of cozy mysteries. This is no ordinary mystery, though, as it features a paranormal slant thanks to the magic-wielding Bonheim triplets. The trio lives in the small town of Doyle, California, where they are careful to keep their magic a secret from their n

Fate! Book six in the Witches of Doyle cozy mystery series, and companion to Close Encounters of the Curd Kind is coming in November! I’d originally written the Wits’ End series as a counterpoint to the Witches of Doyle cozy mystery books. The witches see the events in Doyle (aka Murphy’s, CA) from a magical perspective; Susan, like most Doyleites, doesn’t. But I decided to challenge myself and try to tell the same set of events from the two different points of view. Fate, bo

Murphys: The picturesque Sierra location that inspired Doyle. Wits' End centers around the owner of a UFO-themed B&B in "Doyle," California. There actually is a Doyle, California -- a teeny town near the Nevada border. But that's not the Doyle of Wits' End. Doyle is based on Murphys, California, a Gold Rush-era town in the Sierra foothills, between Angels Camp and Bear Valley. I grew up in California and spent many summers at Bear Valley, making sure to stop along the way in

Zoe’s scream sliced through the bookstore. She shrieked and stumbled in the aisle, knocking the travel books to the carpet. The wolf, skeletal, merciless, hunched it shoulders, readying to spring. Harry’s spirit whispered a curse. In spite of everything, pity surged through me for the woman. But I didn’t turn away. I saw the animal spirit tear at her neck. I saw Harry’s malformed ghost reach into her heart. I saw the sheriff grab Zoe’s wrist. In a back-and-forth motion, the g

Zoe slid the Necronomicon inside her shiny olive jacket. “Drop the belt.” The sheriff unbuckled her utility belt. Her holstered gun thunked to the thin, gray carpet. A cool draft twined about me. My hands dug into Bailey’s fur. Something was here – Harry? – but I couldn’t see it. “You were outside my house last night,” I said. “Yes,” Zoe said. “Now into the storage room.” “Why?” the sheriff asked casually, and this time the chill I felt rattled my bones. The sheriff didn’t wa

“I’ll take that.” With her gun-free hand, Zoe took the book from the counter. She almost looked military in her olive bomber jacket, her pelt of thick, short hair. “Join the sheriff.” She waggled the gun at me. Slowly, I walked around the counter. A wraithlike face blurred its shiny surface. I looked away, a chill rippling my skin. We weren’t alone. But a ghost wouldn’t stop Zoe. I would. “Did you bomb my station?” the sheriff asked. Zoe’s angular face set with fury. “Tom. T

A glittering carapace of snow covered Main Street’s cars and the old west buildings. Movements jerky, I tugged on cotton gloves and stared at the malignant, leather-bound book open on my counter. A weight pressed against my ankle, and I smiled down at Bailey. The beagle’s owner had been happy to leave him here while she shopped. Heart hammering, I bent, studying the autograph through a magnifying glass. Since I’d become a rare book dealer, I’d learned to verify author signatu

Rasputin. I raced downstairs, grabbing the baseball bat in the umbrella stand by the door. My aunt had woven protective wards around the house, and I’d maintained her spells. If Rasputin – or Tom, or whatever his name was – was a dark magician, he wouldn’t cross the property line. Chest heaving, I charged onto the porch. Icy knives of wind pierced the loose cables of my sweater. I shielded my face with one hand. A wiry, masculine figure loped down the road. My hand tightened

My phone rang, jangling me, and I half-fell from the futon. I scrambled across the attic’s rough floorboards to the phone. “Hello?” “It’s me,” Connor said. My shoulders collapsed in relief. “What happened? Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he said. “So’s the book.” “I don’t care about the book.” I clambered to my feet and stared out the attic’s octagonal window. A cloud drifted in front of the waning moon. “It’s you I—” My throat thickened, choking off the words. “What happened?” “W

Frantic, I called Connor. “We’re sorry,” a mechanical voice droned, “you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this—” I hung up and dialed the sheriff. “We’re sorry, you have reached a number—” My breath burst raggedly in and out. They were okay. They had to be. I strode to the front door, grabbed my ivory parka off its hook, wrestled the door open, stared. My neighbor’s pine lay across my driveway. The massive tree had crush

“Do you have information on the murder?” The sheriff’s voice was flat. I leaned against my tile counter and stared at the lights dangling in the window, listened to the screaming wind. Normally I enjoyed a good storm. But I couldn’t tonight, my palm moist on the phone’s slick plastic. “That book you found – is it a Necronomicon?” A long pause. “I thought you didn’t touch the body.” “There’s a photo on Harry’s Instagram—” She sighed. “What part of don’t-interfere-with-an-inves

Blocked. I hadn’t even found Lower World. Chest taut, I paced the attic. Usually, when magic didn’t work, it just didn’t work. But something else had happened tonight. Pages, rustling paper… a book? A Necronomicon? Impossible. The storm rose, howling. So Harry had a photo of a supposed Necronomicon. It didn’t mean that had been the book found on his body. “Urgh.” I stomped downstairs and booted up my computer in the kitchen. My usual sources didn’t have anything on a faux-Nec

The storm blew, a swirl of white. I struggled with the door to my stone and shingle home. An unnatural, colder draft flowed through the open door and past my ankles, “my” dead cat escaping for the night. Turning to the yard, I let my focus drift, stretched my sight into middle world. But the cat’s spirit remained invisible. I rubbed my temple. Would I see ghosts again? I was no detective. I needed that world’s aid now. Toeing off my shoes, I climbed to the attic. This had onc

I turned the sign in my window to CLOSED and switched off the lights. The street behind the damp glass brightened into view. Snow spun downward, softening the scene. What did that book have to do with me? I needed to know. Relaxing my gaze, I steadied my breathing. The holiday lights blurred. I reached with my other senses for Middle World, the world of the spirits. Doyle dated to the Gold Rush, and its streets were thick with ghosts. An SUV rolled past. Tourists, hand-in-han

The next day, I sat behind my counter and packaged a first edition Edward Gorey. Customers ambled through the bookstore, flipped pages, read covers. Selling rare books in an ordinary bookstore kept me the right amount of busy. I almost didn’t think about the dead man. A woman banged a dictionary onto the counter. She had Annie Lennox hair, blond, thick, short. She towered over me, and there was muscle definition beneath her mannish blue blazer. I forced my muscles to unbunch.