Editor: Rebecca Rue Proofreader: Jamie Rich
the immortal prudence blackwood Copyright ÂŠ 2019 Stephanie Grey All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by BHC Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2018948482 ISBN: 978-1-64397-032-5 (Hardcover) ISBN: 978-1-947727-83-0 (Softcover) ISBN: 978-1-948540-33-9 (Ebook) Visit the publisher: www.bhcpress.com
Albany County, New York, 1785
er long, black hair whipped behind her as she sprinted through the woods. “Anna Maria!” she called. Laughter, picked up by the wind, seemed to swirl all around her. “Anna Maria!” the woman called again. She caught a glimpse of flaming red hair darting amongst the trees and followed it. “Stop! You’re going too far!” The young girl giggled in response and ran faster. “If you don’t stop, I’ll have to tell your father and you’ll receive a lashing,” the woman warned. Anna Maria abruptly slowed and trotted back to the woman. “Aunt Prudence,” she said, pouting. “I was only playing.” Prudence Blackwood smiled despite herself, her bright green eyes shining. “It’s time we return home.” “Please, can’t we go a little farther?” the young girl pleaded. “I love exploring!” Prudence nodded. Her niece was as adventurous as the boys her age, though they often played without her because she was a girl. Having no sisters, and being childless at age twenty-six, Prudence often took it upon herself to indulge her niece on the days when the chores
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were completed by midafternoon. With winter arriving soon, their time together outside was dwindling. Anna Maria smiled broadly. “Thank you,” she said, grasping her aunt’s hand. “Mother never lets me out of her sight at the farm.” Allowing her niece to lead her, Prudence remained quiet. They soon came upon a stone wall, and Anna Maria dropped her hand to run to it. “Look! It’s a rock wall.” She pressed her small palms against it, feeling its rough texture. Prudence’s eyes swept over the large structure, and she tilted her head thoughtfully. “It looks like it is part of the land, and yet it looks like it was created by man.” The young girl’s eyes widened. “Like they built it and tried to disguise it?” she asked excitedly. “Almost,” Prudence murmured. She glanced upward, noticing the sun was beginning to sink. “Come along, Anna Maria. We need to return home before the sun sets.” Her niece was sprinting toward a spot at the end of the wall. “There’s an opening!” she shouted. “Come, we must see what’s inside!” “Tomorrow.” The little girl’s face fell, disappointed. “We have too many tasks to accomplish before the Harvest. Who knows when we’ll be able to come back here? Or if we can even find it again?” Prudence glimpsed back toward their path home and sighed heavily. “Just for a moment, and then we must go. There will be no arguing.” “Yes, ma’am,” Anna Maria said solemnly. She dashed inside, Prudence once again following her. Despite her short stature of five feet, three inches, Prudence found herself ducking slightly to avoid bumping her skull on the ceiling. The departing sun offered little light, yet what they could see was magnificent. The stone walls were perfectly smooth, and every few feet an archway had been carved into what seemed like an endless hall. Strange
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symbols were etched into the stone and, curious, Prudence ran her hands across one of the glyphs. “Ouch,” she muttered, instantly snapping her hand back when she felt a sharp bolt of pain. She checked her finger in the pale light and saw that she was bleeding. “Where do you think this leads?” Anna Maria asked in awe. Seeing her aunt’s finger, she ripped off a scrap of fabric from the bottom of her dress. “Let me wrap it for you,” she offered. Prudence said nothing as Anna Maria attended to her wound, her eyes darting around from symbol to symbol, uncomprehending of their meaning. Anna Maria frowned. The blood from her aunt’s finger had been a vibrant red but was now dark—as if the blood was older—as it pumped out of her skin. The girl tied the fabric tightly around the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Noticing the light was almost gone, she turned toward the opening. “It’s time to go back.” Prudence remained silent, as if entranced. “Aunt Prudence, please,” Anna Maria pleaded anxiously. Prudence turned to face her niece and Anna Maria gasped softly. The intensity in her eyes was so fierce Anna Maria felt as if her aunt could pierce her with her gaze. Prudence shook her head slightly and nodded. “Yes, it is time to return home.” It was completely dark when the two arrived at the farm. Anna Maria had worried along the way they would get lost, but her aunt’s step had never faltered. Prudence knocked on the heavy wooden door, and her sister answered quickly. “Where have you been? Prudence Blackwood, you cannot just take my child and go traipsing throughout the woods!” “My apologies, Winifred,” Prudence murmured. Winifred Sutton opened her mouth to continue her scolding but paused when she noticed the state of her sibling. “Prudence, are you all right?” Prudence swayed slightly as the sweat began to pour down her face. “Perhaps not entirely,” she whispered.
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Winifred screamed as her sister collapsed, unmoving.
9 Anna Maria Sutton hung her head, refusing to look at the casket as the priest spoke softly, yet powerfully. It was like he was trying to interrupt her own train of thought, and that bothered Anna Maria. She was only ten years old, but she knew she was different from the rest of her village, even her family. Only Aunt Prudence had really made her feel special, and now she was gone. The mysterious illness had overwhelmed her within days, and her injured finger never stopped dribbling blood that came to resemble molasses. She wept, the sobs racking her body. She had tried to save her aunt. She’d led a group of men to the mysterious cavern they had discovered, but she could not find it again. She begged them to not stop helping her search for it; they had merely discarded her, calling her a child with a wild imagination. She was sure that a cure, or at least an answer as to what had made her aunt sick, would be there. Her mother smoothed her hair, comforting her. Her father stared at the coffin he had helped build and shook his head forlornly. Prudence had been loved by everyone. She never wanted anyone to feel sorry for her for being unable to bear children, or even after her husband had left her when it was discovered her womb was barren. She had graciously allowed him to leave, never saying a word. It had been quite scandalous and he had left town because of it, but Prudence had stayed, and people admired her bravery and kindness for never cursing his soul. The priest finished his speech, and Anna Maria glanced at him. He had closed his Bible and was looking thoughtfully at her. He smiled sadly, and then to the rest of the congregation, he made a sign of the cross. Everyone began to leave, including her own family. “May I please stay and go to the grave?” Anna Maria asked, her voice small. “No,” her mother said immediately. “Let her go,” her father countered.
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Winifred nodded as the coffin was loaded into a wagon. She jumped onto the back of it, the gravedigger protesting at first until her father spoke quietly to him. He sighed in response and jerked the reins for the horses to start moving. The trek to the cemetery was farther than it looked, and she was coated in dust by the time they arrived. There was already a spot dug for her aunt and tears formed again as she thought about poor Prudence being alone and cold inside the grave. The gravedigger jumped off the wagon and walked to the back of it. “Are you sure you want to see this?” he asked. Anna Maria nodded solemnly. “Yes.” He pulled the casket so that half of it was hanging off the wagon. It made Anna Maria wince, knowing her aunt had been so small that she, even with the weight of the coffin, could be moved so easily. The gravedigger tilted it and it slid off the wagon, landing with a thud on the ground. “Usually there’s two of us, but she was light,” he said, perhaps trying to be helpful. The remark only fueled the young girl’s unhappiness. Another thud sounded as the casket was placed inside the grave. He began scooping piles of earth and dumping them on top of it, the sounds of splattering dirt against the wood almost too much for Anna Maria. She found a second shovel and helped, the gravedigger never uttering another word to her. When they were finished, the gravedigger placed both shovels in the wagon and she joined him in the coach’s seat. They remained silent as they returned to the village. Once there, he opened his mouth to speak, decided against it, and merely inclined his head toward her. She smiled slightly and dashed back to her farm, the sound of dirt hitting the wood still running through her mind.
9 Two days later, Anna Maria was sitting by the firelight after supper, sewing a patch inside of her brother’s pants. Her mother was singing as
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she worked, her voice soft and sweet. She loved to hear her mother sing, though this song was tinged with sadness. Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside, the dogs barking loudly and the horses neighing nervously inside their corral. Her father grabbed his musket and a lantern and ventured outside, ordering his sons to remain inside to protect the women. There was a pale figure approaching from the far side of the farm. Her dark hair was tangled, her dress covered in stains he couldn’t identify. “Stop!” he commanded. “Stay back!” The figure ignored him and continued walking. “I will shoot!” he warned. When the figure ignored him once again, he raised his musket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The figure stopped for a moment, looking down at its stomach. It shrugged and kept coming. “Bring me my powder, boys!” Anna Maria’s father was still reloading his second shot when the figure arrived, and he stumbled back in shock. Prudence Blackwood stood at his doorstep, her skin a deathly pale. Dirt covered her dress and her hair was matted. Her green eyes were wild, making her seem unworldly. “It’s the devil!” Winifred yelled, peering over her husband’s shoulder. “No!” Anna Maria cried. His musket reloaded, her father raised it once more and aimed it at her aunt. She stepped in between them. “You will not harm her!” “Anna Maria,” Prudence spoke. Her voice was unwavering. “Please go inside.” Her niece clung to the folds of her dress. “No, I’m not leaving you.” Prudence sighed and placed her hand on top of Anna Maria’s head. “You will not touch her, demon!” her father shouted. “I am no demon,” she replied calmly. “You have risen from the grave itself!”
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Prudence cast her gaze toward the cemetery that could not be seen from the Sutton farm. “I have indeed,” she murmured. “Though I am not dead.” “What happened to you, Aunt Prudence?” Anna Maria stared at her aunt in amazement. “I was in a deep sleep,” she answered softly. “I could hear you. All of you. I could even hear the doctor declare me dead and I screamed, though my mouth would not work. I was unable to move my body.” She looked at her niece, her eyes gentle. “I even heard you crying as the gravedigger covered my casket.” Anna Maria burst into tears. “I helped him,” she said, sobbing. “I didn’t know you were still alive!” “Shh, Anna Maria,” Prudence soothed her niece. “I hold no fault against you or anyone else.” “How did you survive in the casket? There was no air!” Prudence’s gaze hardened as she looked at her brother-in-law. “I don’t know. It was almost as if I was in a dream state and, suddenly, I wasn’t. I had to break my way out of my own coffin and then I came to you. To my family.” Winifred grasped her sister’s hands. “But there are no markings upon you! How did you escape without injury?” Prudence looked at her hands as if noticing them for the first time. She moved them into the light of the lantern, the bewilderment clear on her face. “I don’t remember feeling any pain.” As her aunt studied her hands, Anna Maria wrapped her arms around Prudence’s waist. The fabric was rough and she leaned back, seeing a large hole for the first time. Prudence’s skin was visible underneath. She gasped and her father grabbed her shoulder, yanking her away. “I shot you! There is a hole in that garment! Demon!” Without aiming again, he shot Prudence in the heart. Yet she did not fall. Another hole was ripped into her dirt-covered dress, another patch of white skin visible now.
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“You shot me,” Prudence said quietly. “I did not feel any pain.” “You’re invulnerable!” Anna Maria said in amazement. “How, Aunt Prudence?” Her mother began to cry in terror, her brothers trying to hide their own fear. Her father turned red with hate and anger. “You are the devil!” he bellowed, pointing at her. “I will gather the townspeople. I may not be able to shoot you, but we will tear you apart and cast you out, demon!” He was trembling with rage. Prudence knelt down to Anna Maria’s level. “I cannot stay here.” “You can! You’ll show them you’re not a demon.” Even as Anna Maria spoke, her father was already on his horse and galloping toward the town. “Anna Maria, I will make sure you are well cared for and look in on you when I can.” “You will most certainly not!” Winifred yelled. Prudence shot a glance at her sister. She whimpered and slammed the door, leaving her and Anna Maria alone. “I do not know what has happened to me, but I do know it is unnatural. I must go now. Please be strong. Be strong for me. Be strong for you.” She kissed the top of Anna Maria’s head and, without another word, went into the night. Anna Maria watched her until she disappeared into the forest. She was still crying when her father returned with the men, torches in hand. They followed her aunt into the forest, sure they were going to find her. She knew they would never see her again.
Washington, D.C., 1947
he body was fairly fresh, the ligature marks on its wrists and ankles appearing as if the skin would snap back into place as soon as the twine was cut. Twine? Detective Clive O’Reilly peered more closely at the frayed string. He ran a hand through his shaggy, light brown hair and sighed. “Has anyone found the head yet?” he called, his deep voice amplified by the nearby Potomac River. Several policemen were gathered at the site, searching frantically. The body had been reported that morning by two boys who had been out fishing at dawn. They were currently further down the river, fishing as if there was no crime scene they themselves had reported earlier. The detective shook his head. People in this town were tough. “Edith called, Clive. She wants you to take Frankie this afternoon.” “Shit,” Clive spat. “Did you already tell her that’s not going to happen?” Detective Andy West patted his round belly. “You know lying upsets my stomach.” Clive looked at his partner and frowned. “It’s not lying. I can’t take our son now.”
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“I didn’t know that before I left the station to come down here,” Andy replied easily, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That ex-wife of yours sure is going to be a handful when you tell her you can’t take Frankie.” He took off his hat and wiped his brow, exposing his diminishing white hair. “That sun is already beating down on me,” he said, replacing his hat. “It’s winter, Andy.” “I’m old. I’ve got thin skin. The rays penetrate faster,” his partner retorted. He watched the other policemen scour the riverbanks. “You ought to spend more time with him, you know. He’s already five. He’s growing up fast. You don’t want him to grow up and wonder where his daddy was,” he said softly. “Frankie knows I’ve got my priorities and they’re to catch the bad guys,” Clive replied, peering once again at the body. “It doesn’t look like there was much bleeding from the neck wound when he decapitated this man.” “How do you know the killer is a man?” Andy asked, crouching down next to Clive. “What woman do you know who can remove a head in one blow? Look, there are no markings to indicate that it took more than one swing.” “I was just testing you,” he said with a grin. “Look,” he added more seriously, “I made sure to put my family first. It wasn’t always easy, but I did it, and now I am an excellent grandpa to three beautiful grandchildren.” “You and your wife weren’t divorced, so you didn’t have to juggle the job and your kids. Damn, that was one hell of a sharp ax.” “That’s because I didn’t put the job first instead of my family,” Andy said tensely. Clive straightened, his jaw working vigorously as his temper rose. Lightly, he asked, “When do you retire, old man?” Andy stood and slapped his partner on his back. “You’re thirty-one. You’re still young. You’ve got a lot of figuring out to do.”
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“Like who murdered this man,” Clive said, redirecting the conversation. “We got it!” The two detectives immediately began walking to where a group had gathered. “Stay here and make sure to keep away the onlookers,” Andy ordered. A policeman, fresh out of the academy, nodded solemnly. “Jesus, it’s a bullet wound,” Clive said through gritted teeth. He squinted. “Looks like another .22 caliber.” “We’ve got a repeat. Goddamnit,” Andy swore. “Why cut off the head after they’re already dead?” “I don’t know. I don’t know why he’s dropping off the bodies in such public places, either. The Thomas Jefferson Memorial is nearby. The son of a bitch dropped the other one off down the road from the White House. He’s doing it at night when no one can see him, but the risk is still there.” Clive stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Is it the thrill of it? Is he trying to send a message? Death to capitalism?” “I don’t think he’s that deep. I think he’s just doing it because he can. That’s two murders and we’re nowhere closer to solving this than we were a couple of weeks ago when the first body showed up.” The aging detective nodded as if agreeing with his own hypothesis. “I’m interested in the twine he’s used. That’s twice now.” Andy watched his partner, noticing his hawk-like, deep blue eyes taking in the river, the bare trees, the onlookers. Did he think the killer was out there now, watching them work? “What about the twine? It’s just twine.” “He had enough to tie up two bodies. Two sets of wrists. Two sets of ankles. People don’t just have that amount of twine lying around.” “Farmers do. They use it to bale hay. There are farms around here, Clive. Going to be hard to narrow that down.” “Nobody is baling hay now. It’s November. I think it’s something worth checking out. Take a sample of it and compare it to what the feed stores around here sell.”
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“That’s a young man’s job,” Andy said, laughing. “I’m retiring soon. You go out there in the cold and talk to them.” Clive stared at him, incredulous. “For fuck’s sake, Andy, this man has killed twice! You’re more concerned about going home to see your wife than you are about making sure this guy doesn’t do it again?” Andy stopped laughing, his expression dangerous. He poked his finger into Clive’s lightly muscled chest. “I was a detective long before you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye when he looked at your momma one night. I have put away my fair share of criminals. I have spent more hours on this job than I can count and I still have a family to go home to because I know how to balance the good and the bad. You can work your ass off and it won’t stop a killer if he wants to do it every night. Those late nights at your desk only make you slower the next day because you didn’t get any sleep. A lack of balance can make you sloppy and that’s unfair to the people that we serve. So shut your goddamn mouth about me going home to see Susan. We’ll catch this guy, I promise, but don’t you ever yell at me again and question my ways. Ever.” Clive swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “You go home. I’ll handle this,” he muttered. Andy didn’t bother waiting for an apology. Instead, he said, “We’ll have them take the body to the morgue, and I’ll take you back to the station. You can at least call Edith and let her know you definitely can’t take Frankie today.” “Great,” Clive mumbled. “I’d rather take another ass chewing from you any day than have to hear her complain.” Andy grinned. “I’ve had years of experience at this. Ass chewings are a talent of mine, really.” Clive laughed. “That wasn’t my first and it certainly won’t be my last, I’m sure.” “Probably,” his partner replied, still smiling.
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Clive draped his coat over the back of his chair. He plopped down at his desk and began writing his report for that morning. He’d have Sandy, the secretary, type it for him later. He hated those damned typewriters. He could never seem to get his fingers to go on the right keys, despite Sandy begging him to learn just so she didn’t have to read any more gruesome case details. “It would help me sleep better at night to not see that,” she had said. Clive had sharply told her to find a new place to be a secretary if she couldn’t handle the work, and she had promptly shut her mouth. He thought about his ex-wife and sighed. Reluctantly, he picked up the phone and dialed her number. She answered immediately. “Don’t you dare tell me that you can’t take him,” she said as soon as she recognized his voice. “I’m sorry, Edith, but I just can’t. Today is not a good day.” He could almost hear her jaw clench. “No day ever seems to be a good day,” she snapped. “We got another headless body,” he said flatly. “I’ve got to talk to some people. I can bring Frankie along with me if that’s what you want.” “Another one?” Her voice softened. “I’m sorry, Clive.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I’ll take him to my mother’s.” “What’s so important that you needed me to take him today? It’s not the weekend.” “I’d rather not talk about this.” Clive’s chest tightened. “You’re going on a date.” “I told you that I’d rather not talk about this.” “But it’s the middle of the week,” he argued. “Clive,” Edith warned. “What kind of man takes out a woman in the middle of the week?” he pressed. “No man that I want my son around.” “Clive, it’s been four years! Do you hear me? Four years! I am not your wife anymore and I’m free to date whomever I please.” “Now you sound like a damn whore,” Clive spat.
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“That’s enough,” Edith said, her voice dangerously low. “You should be so lucky that I would find a man who would be around me because, maybe then, our son would have a father figure!” The phone clicked as the line went dead. Clive slammed his fist down on top of his desk. The others around him stopped and stared. “What are you looking at?” he snapped. He leaned back in his chair, fuming. Edith never understood why he worked so hard. She thought that there was someone else who could take care of the problems within the city, but that’s what she just didn’t get. He was good at his job and had caught more criminals than anyone else his age. There was no one else to rely upon. It was just him and a handful of other detectives to cover violent crimes in the whole of D.C. They were spread thin as it was. He wanted to make the world a safer place for her and, when Frankie was born, a safer place for their son. Sure, he had missed a lot during Frankie’s first year, but that was the year he was tracking down the bank robbers who had been running hot. The corporate office of Wells Fargo had been so pleased they had offered him a cash reward, which he had declined due to his ethics. Unfortunately, enough was enough and Edith divorced him, forcing him to become another statistic. Another cop whose wife left him for a normal, safe life. Clive really couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave. He knew it must have been difficult for her to sit at home, worrying late into the night about whether or not he was alive or absently discarded in a ditch somewhere. His breathing slowed as he calmed himself. He would make sure to see his son this weekend, regardless of what happened at work. Andy was right; he needed to put his family first. As he picked up his pen, his phone began to ring. He inhaled sharply, expecting it to be Edith on the other end to argue further. “Is this Detective Clive O’Reilly?” an older voice asked. “Yes. How may I help you today?” “My name is Edwin Moses. I have some information about your killer.”
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Clive straightened in his chair. “Okay, why don’t you come on down to the station and we’ll talk.” “I would rather talk somewhere more private.” Clive chuckled quietly. “There is no place more private than here, I can assure you.” “And I can assure you that you won’t stop him on your own, but I know how to help you.” The detective scowled, but jotted down an address where he could meet the mysterious man later that evening. When he got off the phone, he motioned to his partner. “It looks like you need to ask about that twine.” “Is this because I haven’t left yet?” Andy asked. “No, I might have a lead.” “Want me to go with you?” Andy offered. “I’ll take care of this. Check out a couple of stores and go home. I’ll pick up the rest tomorrow,” Clive promised. He threw on his coat and walked out of the station.
9 It was an old-fashioned pub, complete with dark wood covering the walls and tall, plush booths scattered throughout the room. Dragons were carved into the lampposts surrounding the large bar, including the bar itself. The ceilings were covered in tin tiles that shined so brightly they resembled real silver. Clive scanned the scant crowd until he found what he was looking for: a short, older man of sixty-eight, though he had a powerful build that showed he had spent many years as a hard laborer. He lacked hair and his brown eyes revealed the cunningness behind them. He approached slowly. “Mr. Moses?” he said. The old man shook his hand. “Detective O’Reilly, it’s so nice to meet you. I apologize for the cloak-and-dagger business, but I know in the station you have many desks in a big room with several other people. The bull pen is what you call it, correct?”
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Clive merely nodded. “I didn’t want to be in one of your interview rooms. Too many other people can watch and this is something that is going to sound fantastical.” He pointed at an empty booth in the back of the pub. “Shall we sit?” The detective followed him and slid into the seat across from the old man, his face expressionless. Inside, he was skeptical. Edwin glanced nervously around the pub and motioned for the bartender to bring two beers. Clive shook his head. “No, thank you.” He chuckled. “I assure you, you’ll need it. It will help you. Believe me.” “Facts are what help me believe a story, Mr. Moses.” The beers arrived, one remaining untouched in front of the detective. Edwin’s eyes briefly flashed their annoyance before he smiled again. He took a swig from his glass. “Do you know the term ‘serial killer’?” he began. “Some detective in Berlin said it in the thirties, but I don’t think it’s widely used.” “That’s too bad because that’s what you have,” Edwin blurted. “I know it’s just two victims so far—I was there this morning and saw the police line—but there will be more. You’re going to need her to help you. This guy is going to elude you otherwise.” “I need a woman to help me?” “Don’t be so chauvinistic, Detective. She’s more than just a woman. This is what she does.” “What do you mean by that?” “She kills the killers,” Edwin said bluntly. Clive thought briefly of the previous murderers he had brought in. Some had been especially big, burly men. No woman would have been able to take them down. “She does,” the old man insisted, seeing the doubt on Clive’s face.
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Clive grimaced. “I appreciate the tip, Sir,” he said gently. “I’ll pay for the beers.” As he began to stand, Edwin’s hand snaked across the table and grasped his wrist. He was even stronger than he had appeared. “Sit,” he commanded darkly. “Sit and listen and then you will believe me. Because, if you don’t, there will be more and the bodies will get worse. Do you think that decapitation is the worst that can be done to a body?” He laughed mirthlessly. “You can’t even begin to realize what can be done. This guy wants your attention. And he’ll get it, I can assure you. That’s why you need her before it goes too far.” Intrigued, Clive sat down on the plush leather of the booth. “What makes this woman so special?” Edwin took a deep breath. Quietly, he said, “Her name is Prudence Blackwood. She’s an immortal.”
about the author Stephanie Grey is a graduate of East Tennessee State University with a degree in journalism. Writing has always been present in Stephanieâ€™s life. From a young age, she has been writing short stories for her family to enjoy. When she entered high school, she decided that she would one day write a full-length novel. The Immortal Prudence Blackwood is her first novel with two more on the way. She currently lives in South Carolina with her husband where she is working on a new novel. She hopes to be able to share her stories with the world for many years to come.
In 1947 a brutal killer emerges leaving the police with no leads. When the mysterious Prudence Blackwood appears to help hunt for the murder...
Published on Aug 26, 2019
In 1947 a brutal killer emerges leaving the police with no leads. When the mysterious Prudence Blackwood appears to help hunt for the murder...