Steampunk in the Gold Rush - A Midsummer Night’s Mechanical by Kirsten Weiss

Though steampunk tales – sci-fi set in the Victorian era – are generally placed in England, the genre’s setting is rapidly expanding to other parts of the world. And hooray for that! Yes, Victorian England lends itself to improper ladies and toffs in top hats. All that overblown civility! But sometimes, the most exciting adventures take place in the world’s most uncivil places.

Since I’m from the San Francisco area and was force-fed stories of the California Gold Rush as a child, that time and place seemed a natural fit for the Sensibility Grey series of steampunk suspense. The California Gold Rush was chaotic, anarchic, and dangerous – the ideal setting for a steampunk adventure. (It was also much easier for me to research and imagine what old California looked like than Victorian London.)

Another great thing about the California Gold Rush? Since gold was discovered in 1848, and the rush got started in 1849, it takes place at the beginning of the Victorian and, therefore, the steampunk era. So for my characters, the technology they experience is new and marvelous. Readers get to experience that sense of wonder and excitement through the characters’ eyes. My heroine, Sensibility Grey is an inventor of mechanicals. She’s still in the “figuring things out” stage, and the reader can go right along with her discoveries – both mechanical and magical.

The California Gold Rush also provided an interesting mix of cultures, and frequent tension existed between them. The Spaniards oppressed the indigenous peoples. Then the Americans came in, pushed out the Spaniards… and also oppressed the local populations. These culture clashes add a tension-filled backdrop to the Sensibility Grey series of steampunk suspense novels.

Where the government fails to provide law enforcement, vigilantes will inevitably step in. When I lived in the former USSR, I saw this sadly often. The police were corrupt and allowed the successful criminals to pay them off and go free. So men would band together and administer their own justice to make their neighborhoods inhospitable to crime. Results were as could be expected – vigilantes went too far, innocent people got hurt. But I confess I felt some sympathy for those vigilantes – the police were criminals themselves. If you were neither criminal nor cop (same difference), life felt very out of control. And that’s not a good feeling.

However, I feel zero sympathy for the vigilantes who patrolled Gold Rush San Francisco’s streets. A group called “The Hounds” pretty much ran San Francisco in early 1849, when San Francisco lacked any real civic leadership or even a jail. Though the Hounds claimed they were a “safety committee,” they were anti-immigrant and criminals themselves. By the summer of 1849, the citizens of San Francisco had had enough and formed a “real” government, setting up a legal system and driving out the Hounds.

For all these reasons, the California Gold Rush was a ripe setting for a steampunk adventure. 

Would your home make a good spot for some steampunk madness? Let us know in the comments below!

A Midsummer Night’s Mechanical

Sensibility Grey Series 

of Steampunk Suspense Book 3

Kirsten Weiss

Genre: Steampunk/suspense

Publisher: Misterio Press

Date of Publication: May 1, 2016

ISBN: 978-1-944767-00-6

ASIN: B01DOKO6CA

Number of pages: 224

Word Count: 69,000

Cover Artist: Kirsten Weiss

Book Description:

A Midsummer Murder

The California Territory, 1849

Blamed for burning down the San Francisco wharf, clockwork inventor, Sensibility Grey has spent the last three months in hiding. Now all she wants is to depart the gold-crazy boomtown for a new life in the East. So when the owner of a traveling theater offers her work embellishing his mechanical stage, she turns him down. Then he turns up dead on her doorstep along with his enigmatic stage.

An explorer of the mysteries of aether, Sensibility has her own secrets to keep, and adversaries who’ll stop at nothing to learn them. Is the mechanical stage a part of a bigger game? Or the key to unlocking her true, magical potential?

A Midsummer Night’s Mechanical is book three in the Sensibility Grey series of steampunk suspense.

Kobo      Amazon

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco, California Territory, June 1849.

Sensibility sat cross-legged upon her bed and tried not to think. She tried not to think of the ache where her stays pinched her back. She tried not to think of tomorrow’s journey across the American wilderness. She tried not to think about the clamor of banging drums and tootling fifes and—

“Oh, good gad!” She clenched her fist, pieces of quartz crystal biting into her flesh. Sensibility sprang from the bed and threw open the boarding house window. Oppressive heat, acrid from the nearby outhouse, rolled into the room. Wrinkling her nose, she leaned out over the fenced back yard and craned her neck. The afternoon sun streamed through the laundry, hanging limp on the line. From her position, she couldn’t see the street procession. But neither could she avoid hearing their blasted parade.

Something scuttled near her elbow, and she jerked away, slamming her head on the window frame. White pain arced through her skull.

A baby raccoon, not much larger than the palm of her hand, cowered on the other end of the narrow sill. It scrabbled, hunching into a tight ball, trapped on the high ledge.

“Ow.” She winced, rubbing her throbbing head and glad her chignon had taken the brunt of the blow. “How on earth did you get up here?”

The raccoon mewled.

“You shall have to make your own way home, for you cannot come inside. Mrs. Watson has a strict rule about animals inside her boarding house.”

Gently, so as not to disturb the creature, she shut the window. The raccoon peered over the ledge then looked at her, his expression plaintive.

Attempting to ignore the animal, she paced the denuded room, her brown skirts swishing.

They had ample space to swish. Nearly all her belongings lay compressed into a single carpetbag, set before the empty wardrobe. The bedroom had an air of abandonment.

Unsettled, Sensibility rattled the quartz crystals in her hand and glanced to the window.

The animal stared inside, forlorn.

She tugged at her collar. It was such a small thing. But rules were rules. “You found your way onto the ledge. You can find your own way down.”

Sensibility turned to the journal open on the desk. Her sketch of an unworldly creature she’d once encountered scowl from the page. Frowning, she slammed the book shut. It had been careless of her to have left it open. Strange, she couldn’t remember examining the journal before she’d gone downstairs to retrieve her luncheon.

The crystals pressed into her palm. She was so close to a breakthrough in aether technology, but the clues remained buried. Buried in the remains of her father’s last journal. Hidden in a journal from a traveling occultist. Scattered throughout her own notes and theories. One day soon, she would fit those pieces together. It was madness to hope she could solve that problem today.

Sensibility opened her hand and gazed at the quartz crystals. She’d mastered the use of aether to power small devices. But aether had other applications, such as distance control and distance vision. These applications eluded her. “There has to be a way…”

She glanced at the window.

The animal raised itself on its hind legs and pressed its tiny black paws to the glass.

Sensibility groaned. “I know I’ll regret this.” Pocketing the crystals, she opened the window.

The raccoon cowered.

“You,” she said, “being a wild animal, will attempt to bite me if I rescue you. But I will have none of it. I shall pick you up, I shall take you outside, and you shall neither bite nor scratch. Do you understand?”

In a swift motion, she grasped it by the scruff of the neck and lifted it inside. It writhed, and her grasp on it loosened.

She gasped. “Don’t….”

The raccoon dropped to her desk and shook its head. Whiskers twitching, it scuttled to her abandoned luncheon tray and made free with a bit of toast.

About the Author:

Kirsten Weiss worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and in South-east Asia.  Her experiences abroad sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.

Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes steampunk suspense and paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem. Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer re-runs and drinking red wine.

Sign up for her newsletter to get a free copy of the full length urban fantasy novel, The Alchemical Detective, and updates on her latest work at: http://kirstenweiss.com

Blog: http://parayournormal.wordpress.com

Twitter: @KirstenWeiss

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kirsten.weiss/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5346143.Kirsten_Weiss

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5 Favorite Vampy Heroines with Kirsten Weiss

Vivacious, vampy, vixens. I think one of the reasons I love reading (and writing) paranormals are the awesome paranormal heroines. Combining magic with their wits (and occasional superpowers), these women can kick some serious butt, especially when they’re fighting (or becoming) vampires. Here are five of my favorites. 

1) Buffy. Even through her fraught high school years, there was something about this vampire-slaying heroine that made me want to cheer. Funny, brash, her emotional fragility warring with her inherent inner strength, Buffy was a true heroine of her time.

2) Sookie Stackhouse. She may not have brawn, but Sookie’s got brains. And she needs them while threading her way through the world of vampire politics. (And I like her way better in the books than in the TV series).

3) Betsy Taylor, the vampire queen. (Undead and Unwed, by Mary Janice Davidson). Waking up in the morgue would be a shock for anyone, but Betsy Taylor takes it and the vampire world in stride, making her way to the top of the undead food chain in style.

4) Samantha Moon, from JR Rain’s Vampire for Hire series. Another ass-kicking vampire chick, Samantha Moon juggles being a mother and a P.I. while dealing with her jerk ex-husband who just wants his new vampire wife to go away.

5) Milagro de los Santos, of Marta Acosta’s Casa Dracula series. Twenty-something Milagro has issues. She dates all the wrong men, makes all the wrong choices. But we can’t really blame her when she gets turned into a vampire. Or is she something more?

Who are your favorite vampy heroines? Share them in the comments below!

The Hoodoo Detective

Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mysteries

Book 6

Kirsten Weiss

Genre: Urban fantasy/Paranormal mystery

Publisher: Misterio Press

Date of Publication:  October 31, 2014

ISBN: 978-0-9908864-1-9

ASIN:

Number of pages: 291

Word Count: 75,000

Cover Artist: Becky Scheel

Book Description:

Hoodoo, haunts, and horror.

Riga Hayworth just wants to wrap up her supernatural TV series exploring the magic of New Orleans. But when she stumbles across a corpse, she becomes a police consultant on a series of occult murders, murders that quickly become all too personal.

Book six in the Riga Hayworth series of paranormal mysteries.

Available at Amazon  BN  Kobo

Excerpt Chapter 1

“What we need is more conflict.” Sam frowned, his sandy hair stirring in the breeze from a nearby fan.

Riga Hayworth caught a waiter's eye, pointed to her empty cocktail glass, and raised a digit.

Nodding, the waiter bustled off, abandoning her to the crew of the reality TV show. Tourists and black-aproned wait staff swirled about their courtyard table, in that New Orleans mix of soupy heat and raw excitement. 

But all Riga felt was irritation. Irritation that so far the Haunted New Orleans episode of Supernatural Encounters had been a bust. Irritation that she’d felt obliged to do the reality show. Irritation that she didn’t really need the money from the series, her husband had plenty for them both. And that left her awkwardly trying to demonstrate some relevance, keeping her hand in as an income earner. And why did she feel the need to prove herself in their marriage? At the thought of her husband, her annoyance vanished, replaced by longing. What was Donovan doing now?

“We need tension,” her field producer went on. “It doesn’t have to be a fight per se. Tension can mean two people who want different things.” He was dressed for an L.L. Bean safari, but judging from his darkening freckles and ruddy face, he wasn’t any cooler than the rest of them.

Summer in New Orleans. Why?

Riga glanced across the table at her slim, tousle-haired niece, Pen. One bare foot was propped on the edge of her chair, straining the knees of her cargo pants. Today's t-shirt read: KEEP CALM AND GET OFF MY LAWN, an image of a shotgun bracketing top and bottom.

At least with Pen on the Supernatural Encounters camera team, they had a chance for some quality time. The opportunity to do magical research was an added bonus. One of their interviewees, a local hoodoo queen, had joined them for lunch, and Riga had been picking her brain about gris-gris charms.

Riga angled her head back, meditating on a puffy white cloud. If Donovan had been able to get away from his casino in Macau, New Orleans would have been different. Her lips parted. Fun.

She pulled her auburn hair off the back of her neck, enjoying the play of the fan on her damp skin. Discreetly, she unstuck her white silk tank from her back, leaned forward in the wrought iron chair.

“Story is conflict,” Sam, rattled on.

Pen fiddled with a video camera. Her chair was slightly back from the table, angled toward her boyfriend and fellow camera tech John Wolfe. Her other foot rested, hidden, in Wolfe's lap, being massaged.

Angus, their sound man, turned a deeper shade of pink and looked away from the couple.

“I mean, you're gorgeous,” Sam continued. “A Rita Hayworth clone whose name is actually Riga Hayworth. The heart-shaped face, the hair. Your eyes are more of a browny-purple, which is stunning, but the point is...”

Ignoring the producer, Riga narrowed her gaze at Wolfe, still massaging her niece’s bare foot. With his long sideburns and wavy, dark hair, his looks fit his name. Seven years older than Pen, he was a grown man, challenging, virile, sexy. And though Riga liked him, his relationship with her niece made her uneasy. Pen wasn't even old enough to drink yet.

Catching her eye, his face paled, and he laid his broad hands on the table. Riga was unsure what her role of chaperone entailed and had decided to err on the side of militancy.

“You're ignoring me again,” the field producer said.

Riga looked up, studying the spot between his pale blue eyes. “I'm not ignoring you,” she lied. “Just waiting for you to elaborate.”

“As am I, chère.” Beside her, Hannah the Hoodoo Queen propped her head in her hands and fluttered her lashes. Tall, with the sculpted cheekbones of a supermodel and the muscular frame of a pro tennis player, Hannah’s dark skin shimmered in the heat. Dreadlocks streamed from beneath her gold-colored turban.

Sam waved his manicured hands in the air. “Conflict. Stories are built on conflict. Our pilot show had it in spades—”

Riga's mouth turned down. “In the pilot we crossed paths with a serial killer. Do you really want that again?”

“No, no. Of course not,” he said. “Just... conflict.”

“We've got some great footage of Riga rolling her eyes and smirking.” Pen shook her loose, chestnut-colored hair, smothering a smirk of her own.

“It's a start,” Sam said. “But we need more.”

“How much more?” Riga asked.

“We need conflict between people.”

“It's too hot to argue,” Riga said. “Whose bright idea was it to come to New Orleans in June?”

He sighed, glancing at Hannah. “Can't you two at least disagree a little? Magical practitioner to magical practitioner?”

“Why would I disagree with Hannah on anything that has to do with hoodoo?” Riga asked. “She's the specialist, not me.”

“I like this girl,” Hannah said.

He put his hands on his hips. “Work with me here.”

“So you're asking us to fake an argument,” Riga said. “For reality TV.”

“It's television,” Sam said. “You should know by now there's no such thing as reality TV.”

Hannah rose. “Sorry, Mr. Producer. I don't do catfights. And now if y'all would excuse me, I've got to meet a client in desperate need of a love potion.”

“Bye,” Riga said.

Hannah winked and sauntered through the restaurant, winding past the fountain in the center of the courtyard. Pausing beside a table sheltered by ferns, she nodded and disappeared through the garage-like entryway.

Sam folded his lanky arms across his chest. “Riga... We spent the night in one of America's most haunted houses, and you didn't react.”

“It's not that haunted.”

Wolfe's hands were under the table again, and Pen smiled. Riga relaxed, slipped through the in-between. Wolfe's drink toppled, spilling ice and mint leaves and booze into his lap. He leapt up, sputtering, dabbing at his jeans with a cloth napkin.

Pen's feet retracted onto her chair. Peeling a wet leaf from her foot, she glared at her aunt.

Riga gave her a what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it grin. After a year of struggling, her magic had had a sudden breakthrough.

Unfortunately, other parts of her magic were still wildly awry. But the possibilities both excited and terrified her. Enemies in the magical world were like gunfighters, looking to make names for themselves by knocking off tough opponents. The more adept her magic, the easier it was to defend herself, the more people came after her. She fidgeted, itching to return to her hotel room to study the thin file on the Old Man, the file she'd told Donovan she'd leave at home.

Wolfe tossed the soaked napkin on the table. An awkwardly positioned stain spread over the front of his jeans. “I'll be right back.” He headed for the bathrooms, passing the bar. A youngish man in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts half-fell off his barstool, but managed to keep his tall, tropical drink upright. The drinking got started in New Orleans earlier than any other city Riga had visited.

“Riga, this is important,” Sam said. “You need to react more. People need to see your emotion to connect with you – whether that emotion is positive or negative. For example, what are you feeling right now?”

“Annoyed.”

“Great! And what do you do when you're annoyed?”

Riga's lips thinned. “As a mature adult, I express my annoyance in the appropriate time and manner. If you expect me to pitch a fit like some reality TV star—”

“You are a reality TV star. Or you could be if we get this series off the ground. Look, we've got three more days. Just… give me more reaction, okay?”

“Got it. More emotion. No problem.”

Glass splintered, and they turned toward the sound. Hawaiian shirt guy had navigated off the barstool and knocked a waitress to the ground. Clumsily, he brushed an orange from her knee. Her tray rolled along the moss-filled brickwork. A toddler in a highchair pointed at it, laughing with delight. Clutching a fistful of napkins, the bartender hurried to the fallen waitress.

Riga's brow furrowed. Stupid drunks, that was her drink seeping into the patio floor.

Waving a hand in apology at the waitress, Hawaiian Shirt staggered to the fountain, crashed into a chair and stumbled into their table.

Angus stood quickly, and laid a chubby hand on the drunk's chest. In spite of Hawaiian Shirt's six-inch advantage, the stranger stumbled back.

“Hey friend,” Angus said, his broad, freckled face serious, “the bar's that way.”

“I'm not your friend. I'm a hit man. A hoodoo hit man.”

“Well, Mr. Hit Man, you need to move along.” Angus oriented him in the other direction.

The man nodded, turned, brushing past Riga. His lips pressed to her ear, his breath hot and sweet on her neck. “And you're worth a cool quarter mil.” He leaned into her, the gun hidden beneath his shirt digging into her shoulder. Something dropped to her lap.

Pen's face twisted with disgust.

“That's enough, buddy.” Yanking him away from the table, Angus shoved him gently in the opposite direction.

The hoodoo hit man lurched into the dark corridor that led to the bathrooms and the rear exit.

Riga looked down at the scrap of paper folded in her lap. Hands beneath the table, she opened it:

Neither of us is alone.

Follow me and only one of us gets hurt.

At a nearby table, a father lifted his toddler off the ground, blew into the little boy's belly. The child shrieked with laughter.

Riga swallowed. There were too many targets. The waitress, bringing her a fresh Hurricane. A well-dressed couple, engrossed in their smart phones. Pen, smiling vacuously at Wolfe and oblivious to the danger. Riga clenched her hands, a wave of dizziness surging through her body.

Abruptly, she stood.

“Now that's an emotion,” Sam said. “That's what I want to see on your face. What have we got? Anger? Anxiety? Stress?”

“Indigestion.” Riga followed the hit man.

Walking into the cool shadow of the wood-paneled corridor, she unclenched her fists, her heart slamming in her chest. In magic, fear and stress worked against her. Riga fought to relax, rolled her shoulders.

It didn't help. Tension sputtered through her system.

A humming fluorescent light illuminated the narrow hallway in flickering sepia tones. On her left, two bathroom doors, black and splashed with red paint. Further down, a cart stacked with dirty dishes. A sliver of light gleamed at the end of the hall. The rear door stood ajar.

So he wanted her there, outside.

Which meant he was probably in one of the restrooms. Centering herself, she pulled in energy from above and below – hot molten red from the earth, cool blue from the sky.

Riga shoved open the door to the ladies room, checked the stalls.

Empty.

Riga sidled outside. She walked to the men's room, her sandaled feet clicking lightly on the tile floor. Flung the door open.

Wolfe, braced before a urinal, whipped his head around. “Hey!”

“Anyone in here with you?”

“What are you... No!”

“You sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Do you mind?”

“Sorry.” She ducked out.

So the hit man really was waiting for her in the alley, unless he could hide on the ceiling like a bat. Glancing up, she blew out her breath. No vampires or hit men crawled across the ceiling. Not that she really believed there would be.

Riga paced down the corridor, energy rippling between her fingers.

Heat drifted in from the cracked door. Licking her lips, she tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach and pressed her fingertips to the door. She extended her senses beyond it, a gentle push on the auric bubble that surrounded her, forcing the bubble outward. She felt no one before her, outside. Which meant…

Riga spun, panting, palms extended outward, fingers curled like claws.

The corridor was empty.

Sounds of normalcy – the clatter of dishes, laughter, light jazz music – flowed down the corridor from the restaurant.

She stared at the alley door. What. The. Hell. Extending her senses again, Riga probed more carefully. A flicker of life sparked on the edge of her awareness. But it was too small to be the hit man. A cat? The gorge rose in her throat at a familiar pull, sickly sweet.

She pushed open the door. A wave of damp heat struck her, and the scent of copper and rotting garbage. A narrow brick alley. Tumbled cardboard boxes. A garbage can, tipped on its side. A hand, lying on the pavement, wet with...

Gripping the door, Riga took another step into the alley. She stared, breathless. The hoodoo hit man lay on the ground, blood spreading from the gash in his neck in a ghastly smile. Blood soaked his Hawaiian shirt. Blood puddled, trickled, spattered. She stumbled back, dizzy, the warm door handle tethering her to reality, keeping her upright.

Something prickled at the edges of her consciousness, hot and cold and electric.

At the end of the alley, a tall figure wavered in the heat, its head strangely bulbous. It stretched, extended, darkening, pulling light inside it.

“What's going on?” Wolfe asked.

Riga jumped, gasping. She turned and looked into a camera lens. “Dammit, Wolfe!”

Riga glanced down the alley. The figure had vanished.

Wolfe smiled, one eye glued to the viewfinder. “I figured you were up to something when you busted into the men's room, so I went back for my camera.”

Riga couldn't trust herself to speak. She longed to punch him, to wipe that infuriating grin from his mouth.

“What...?” He turned the camera, panning down the alley. The camera dipped, swayed. “Oh.”

Digging into the pocket of her skorts for her cell phone, she called 9-1-1, hands shaking.

“At least the cops can't say you did it,” he said. “I saw you go into the alley. I've even got it on tape.”

Riga grunted. “Small favors.” Forcing down the fear and shock, her mind registered the scene. The hit man had probably been attacked from behind. But the spatter would have been hard for the killer to completely avoid, and she shuddered in spite of the furnace-like heat rising from the macadam. It cooked the garbage, the blood, the body.

There was something horribly intimate about a knife attack. It was close, personal.

She'd rather face a gun.

The hit man's shirt was ruched up, exposing his weapon, a Walther PPK. He'd never gotten a chance to draw it.

About the Author:

Kirsten Weiss is the author of the Riga Hayworth paranormal mystery series: The Metaphysical Detective, The Alchemical Detective, The Shamanic Detective, The Infernal Detective, and The Elemental Detective. She’s also the author of a steampunk novel, Steam and Sensibility.

Kirsten worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the Afghan war zone.  Her experiences abroad not only gave her glimpses into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.

Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.

Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer reruns and drinking good wine. 

You can connect with Kirsten through the social media sites below

Web: http://kirstenweiss.com

Blog: http://parayournormal.wordpress.com

Twitter: @RigaHayworth

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/metaphysicaldetective

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5346143.Kirsten_Weiss

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Interview with Kirsten Weiss Author of The Alchemical Detective

Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre?

I spent nearly fourteen years working in developing countries and this inspired me to write paranormals on two levels.  First, the local superstitions and magical practices were fascinating.  Second, I had a lot of time on my hands, and ended up taking Tarot courses online.   Since Tarot is closely connected to Renaissance magic, alchemy, the Kaballah, and hermeticism, I wound up with a superficial knowledge of a lot of magical topics.

What inspired you to write this book?

I was driving down the road on a rainy day, thinking about how much I disliked my job, and began fantasizing about being a P.I.  Then I wondered about what a metaphysical detective would do, and what sort of character would do that kind of job.  The Riga Hayworth character was born!

Please tell us about your latest release.

In The Alchemical Detective, Riga’s lost (most of) her magic and is trying to figure out how to get it back.  At some level, she’s not sure if she wants to – magic hasn’t always been her friend.  But there’s a serial killer on the loose and he’s using demons to attack magical practitioners.  Riga has reason to believe she may be on his list.  And while she’s got lots of mundane skills to fight back, in the end, she’ll need to get her magic back on track.

Do you have a special formula for creating characters' names? Do you try to match a name with a certain meaning to attributes of the character or do you search for names popular in certain time periods or regions?

I try to match character names to their personality, so it’s easier for the reader to remember who’s who. 

Was one of your characters more challenging to write than another?

Initially when I wrote about the women in the Tea and Tarot group, I wanted to set them at odds with Riga.  I discovered that I’d made them too unlikable, and had to go back and humanize them a bit more.

Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others?

I really enjoy writing Riga, because she doesn’t put up with any %$#@.  I wish I could be more like her!

Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a character sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write?

For my main characters, I create a fairly detailed character biography. But with the minor characters, I actually rely on Tarot cards, e.g. a Queen of Wands or Emperor character.   The Tarot court cards in particular have quite well developed positive and negative traits which work fairly consistently together.

What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?

The entire book is working towards the climax, where Riga faces off with the killer, so I spent a lot of time thinking about that scene.  However, there is another scene, which takes place in a burning church tower, which I like quite a bit as well.  I’d better not say anymore about it!

Did you find anything really interesting while researching this or another book?

I did a lot of research about alchemy for the book, and learned that some alchemists never stepped into a lab at all – they did all their work in their heads.  I like that idea, but I don’t think I have the discipline for it.

What is the most interesting thing you have physically done for book related research purposes?

The fact is, a lot of Riga’s interests are my own (shooting, martial arts, the paranormal) so I didn’t have to do anything special in the way of research.  I do try to be true to my knowledge of martial arts when Riga gets into a fight, and particularly the idea that just because you’re good at martial arts, doesn’t mean you can’t get your ass kicked.  There’s always someone better than you.  I hate it when fictional characters get cocky about their fighting skills.

Can you tell readers a little bit about the world building in the book/series? How does this world differ from our normal world?

The magic is a lot more over than the normal world.  I wanted to use “real” magical practices as they’re used today, so I spoke with demonologists… oh, hey, I did do some original research for this book!  Where was I?  Oh yeah, I wanted to incorporate spells and current magical practices.  But the reality is that when you’re summoning a demon, 99.9% of the time the demon does not appear in 3D, fire-spitting glory.  For the purposes of the book, I went for the 3D fire-spitting glory.

With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones?

The book can be read as a stand alone, but if you want to find out how Riga lost her magic, and how she met Donovan, you’ll have to read Book One, The Metaphysical Detective.

Do any of your characters have similar characteristics of yourself in them and what are they?

They are all much cooler than I am.  So… not really.

Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? How do you deal with it?

I force myself to write anyway.  What goes on the paper may be garbage, but it’s the only way to get through it.  And then I have to edit like mad.

Do you have any weird writing quirks or rituals?

No, I wish I did.  Maybe I’d be more organized about writing then.

Do you write in different genres?

I wrote a historical mystery which was never published – and rightfully so.  It wasn’t very good.  I’ve also got a straight mystery/suspense novel in my head which I hope to come out with in 2013.

When did you consider yourself a writer?

When people started sending me fan mail.  I know, I know – it’s shallow of me.  I need validiation!

What are your guilty pleasures in life?

Chocolate and wine and Ghost Whisperer reruns. 

Other than writing, what are some of your interests, hobbies or passions in life?

Martial arts are my number one hobby, but just to be clear, I’m not particularly good at them.  And of course wine tasting!

What was the last amazing book you read?

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.  It’s a sort of gothic/paranormal set in Spain and it’s beautiful and mind bending.

Where is your favorite place to read? Do you have a cozy corner or special reading spot?

Bed!  In fact, I’ve got books stuffed under my pillows, which is, admittedly, uncomfortable.

What can readers expect next from you?

The sequel to The Alchemical Detective, The Shamanic Detective is (fingers crossed) going to be available on Amazon this Halloween.

Where can readers find you on the web?

They can find me on my website, at: kirstenweiss.com and my twitter handle is @RigaHayworth

Would you like to leave readers with a little teaser or excerpt from the book?

Chapter 1: Calcination

The egg quivered, then rolled, seemingly of its own accord, to the edge of the counter. 

Riga stared at it, her violet-colored eyes narrowed in concentration.  Magic, she reminded herself, was a matter of will and she had that in spades.  However, it was also a matter of focus and in this area, she was lacking.

The egg trembled, then slowly rose into the air; one inch, two inches, five.

“Yes,” Brigitte said encouragingly, her voice a French-accented Lauren Bacall.  Her stone claws tensed, gouging tracks in the linoleum countertop.

The egg exploded, splattering the gargoyle with shell and yolk. 

Brigitte shrieked, the sound of rocks scraping against each together.  “Faugh!  Water!  Bring ze water!” 

Riga hurried to the sink and turned on the tap, frustration wrinkling her brow.  She grabbed a dishtowel and soaked it in warm water.  Her hands trembled and Riga swore under her breath.  Two months ago, this would have been easy. 

At first she’d thought her magic was gone.  Now Riga knew it had gone haywire and her rehab attempts weren’t working.  If anything, her magic had become more unpredictable, more dangerous.  She only dared practice with Brigitte because the centuries-old gargoyle was made of stone.  But even Brigitte wasn’t indestructible. 

Someone beat upon the front door and Riga whipped around, startled.  She should have sensed whoever was coming up the steps.  Another small failure.  More pounding; the cheap wooden door vibrated beneath the blows.

“Police!  Open the door!”

Gargoyle and woman looked at each other.  Woman acted first.  Riga tossed the towel in the sink.  “Don’t move,” she said to Brigitte.

“But ze egg.  It dries like cement,” Brigitte wailed.

“Later.”  Riga hurried to the door and flung it open.  A chilly blast of pine-scented air swept inside, tossing Riga’s auburn hair and stinging her skin. 

Two sheriffs stood before her in wide brimmed hats and heavy dark brown parkas.  Riga might have taken them for rangers had it not been for their belts, strapped with weapons, slung low on their hips.  The older one had his fist raised for another round of door pummeling.  He lowered it with what looked like regret.  He was bulky, bearlike, with steel blue eyes, and she imagined he enjoyed making the door shiver beneath his fist.  The tag under his badge read: Sheriff John King.  The badge itself: El Dorado County.

“I heard a woman scream,” King said. 

“I banged my shin on the coffee table,” Riga said. 

“Are you alone?”  He peered over Riga’s shoulder.  It wasn’t hard – Riga was five foot six, and he stood well over six feet tall, imposing in every direction. 

“Yes.  Can I help you?”  Riga didn’t budge, unwilling to let them in.  It wasn’t that Riga didn’t like cops; she was friends with plenty of them, when they were out of uniform. 

“It was quite a scream,” he said.

She quirked her lips.  “Now you’re just embarrassing me.” 

The Sheriff looked at her.  She returned his gaze.  The silence stretched between them. 

The Deputy coughed.  “Are you Ms. Hayworth?” he asked.  Riga figured him for his early thirties, which meant she had a decade on him.   He was well built, and between the startling pale blue of his eyes and the chiseled planes of his face, would have looked at home on a magazine cover.  But Riga’s gaze was drawn to the Sheriff.  The Deputy had youth, the Sheriff had presence.

“I’m Riga Hayworth.”

“My name is Night, Deputy Night.  May we come in?  Please?”  He smiled ruefully, exposing dimples and gleaming white teeth.  “It’s kind of cold out here.”

Riga hesitated.  But she wasn’t wearing a coat and was freezing in the doorway.  She could feel the heat from the cabin oozing past her, out the door.  “Okay.”  Reluctantly, she stepped back, and allowed them past her.

Hands resting on the butts of their guns, they prowled the room as if they owned the place.  They could have it, for all Riga cared.   It was one of the lower-end tourist cabins, crammed with a mis-matched jumble of seventies era furniture.  A giant picture window looked out upon a forest scene:  pines, and patches of snow wetting the ground.  The afternoon sun slanted low in the sky, sending beams of light glittering through damp tree branches. 

 Brigitte, still covered in egg, had shifted to face the cabin’s small living room.  The deputy stared at the gargoyle, walked to Brigitte, and ran his hands across her stony feathers as if in a caress.  Brigitte would love that, Riga thought. 

“Cool harpy,” he said.  “Where’d you find it?”

“Garage sale.”

Night tucked his hat under one arm, and ruffled his blond hair with his free hand.  “Do you know it’s got egg on it?”

“Forget the statue,” the Sheriff barked.  Turning, he stumbled over a cheap American-Indian themed rug.  “Miss Hayworth, may we sit down?”

She indicated the lumpy sofa, a cruel gesture given the state of its springs, but she didn’t want them to linger. 

They sat.  She remained standing.

The Sheriff removed his hat and put it on a nearby coffee table, covering decades of coffee rings.  “Riga Hayworth.  Is that your real name?”

She raised an eyebrow.  “If you mean, did my parents choose it?  Yes.”

“Funny sort of name,” King said.  “Like that old movie star.  Were your parents fans?”

She shook her head, no.  Not after she’d grown to look more and more like the screen siren; that had disturbed her parents, made them wonder if they’d really picked the name or if the name had picked their daughter.  Riga’s resemblance to Rita Hayworth was uncanny; auburn hair, arched eyebrows, and olive skin. 

“How well did you know Sarah Glass?” King asked.

Riga looked at him blankly.

Sheriff King shifted with impatience.  “Otherwise known as Lady Moonstone.”

“The palm reader?” Riga asked, surprised.  “Not at all.  I think she’s a member of the Tea and Tarot group.  She didn’t show at last week’s meeting, which was my first, so I never had a chance to meet her.”  Riga had forced herself to attend for the first and probably last time.  She wasn’t a joiner. 

Now, Riga knew, she was supposed to ask why the police wanted to know about Sarah Glass.  But the cops weren’t here to satisfy a casual curiosity.  Something bad had happened and Riga wanted to put off learning what it was for as long as possible.  Though her magic had gone awry, she sensed the tug of something dark and inexorable moving towards her, and didn’t like the feeling.

“What’s Tea and Tarot?” King asked.

“The local metaphysical professionals meet twice a month to talk shop at the Fortune Teller’s Café.”

“Who was there last week?” the Sheriff said.

“The owner of the café, Tara, was there.  She reads cards.  Lily, a tea leaf and palm reader was too.  And so was an astrologer, Audrey.  She also has an energetics practice.”

“Energetics?” Night asked.

“Reiki, that sort of thing,” Riga said. 

The Sheriff drummed his fingers on the nearby table.  “I hear you’re a P.I. of some sort, did some consulting for the Oakland police.”

Riga crossed her arms, thinking.  The Oakland connection was an odd one for them to pick up since she’d lived in San Francisco.  The SF cops would have been a more obvious reference.  “I’m a metaphysical detective and I have a California investigator’s license.  I’m not licensed in Nevada.  How did you hear of it?”

“Cops talk,” the Sheriff said.  “They said you knew how to keep your mouth shut.”

It wasn’t exactly a rave review, but she couldn’t blame the Oakland PD.  It had been an unusual case, even by her standards. She was surprised they talked about her at all.  “Are you looking to hire a consultant?” Riga placed a subtle emphasis on the word “hire.”  She’d come here for an extended vacation, but turning it into a work trip held a certain tax deductible appeal.  

In response, the Sheriff unzipped his parka and pulled out a manila file folder.  From it he withdrew an eight by ten photo.  He extended it towards her. 

Okay, she thought: he wanted to see what a metaphysical consultant could do.  She took the photo, and returned to her spot against the counter beside the gargoyle.  Riga held the picture before her so Brigitte could view it: a black and white glossy of a metal disk with a symbol impressed upon it – two concentric circles with oddly shaped letters and symbols drawn between the two and a square grid in the center overlaid with jagged lines.  The expression on her face flickered, then stilled. 

“You know it?” the Sheriff said, leaning forward in his seat.

She grimaced in distaste.  “It’s a sigillum used to summon and control a demon when you don’t know the demon’s name,” she said.  “The style is similar to the Sigillum Dei Aemeth created by John Dee but there are key differences which make this unique.  There was a man in Paris who used a system like this, invented it in fact, named Francois Lefebvre.  The Parisian police will have a file on him.  He died five years ago in a fire.  Lefebvre didn’t take students, wasn’t the type to share, but he had servants.  They may have learned his technique.” 

“How did you learn it?” the Deputy asked.  He was taking notes and turning a pencil between his fingers.  His hands were calloused, roughened by work, and she imagined the young man swinging an axe, splitting firewood.

“I never said I learned it,” she said.

“But you know enough to identify it,” Night persisted.

“Lefebvre tried to summon a demon in my presence,” she said dryly.  “It’s not something one forgets.”

The Sheriff’s bushy eyebrows rose.  “Did he succeed?”

“Of course not,” she said.  Lefebvre had succeeded in raising the demon, but not in controlling it.  Riga had seen to that.  The demon had seen to Lefebvre.  Riga had managed to evade the Parisian cops, keep her involvement secret, and she wasn’t about to upset the status quo.

“You haven’t asked me what this is about,” King said.

“What’s this about, Sheriff?”

“Sarah Glass was murdered.  We found this beside her, and now you tell me you’re one of the few people in the world who knows what this is and how to use it.”

Damn it.  She should have known nothing good could come from telling them about Lefebvre.  But she’d maintained a reasonable relationship with the authorities by not withholding evidence, even when the police neither liked nor believed her. 

 “I understand you’ve got some fighting skills?” the Sheriff asked.  “Have studied martial arts?” 

“I’m no black belt.  What does hapkido have to do with this sigil?”

The Sheriff leaned forward, his stare unrelenting.  “So what happened here?  Did a demon kill her?”  His voice was mocking.

“I have no idea how she died or by whose hand,” Riga said.  “If I had more information—”

He stood and replaced his hat.  “Can’t give you that.  Thanks for your help, Miss Hayworth.  

Don’t leave town.”

The Alchemical Detective
By Kirsten Weiss

Book Two in the Riga Hayworth Series

Genre: Paranormal Mystery

Date of Publication: May 31, 2012

ISBN:  978-0-9855103-1-2

ASIN: B0085XCDL8

Number of pages: 289

Word Count: 75,000

Purchase Links:  Kindle

Book Description

A psychic has been murdered in an occult ceremony and the police pay a visit to Riga Hayworth, metaphysical detective.  But this time, she’s not a consultant on the case, she’s a suspect.

There’s a storm on the horizon.  Riga’s lost her magic, and has come to Lake Tahoe to recover and spend quality time with her new love.  But life for Riga is never that simple.  A psychic’s been murdered, and the police believe Riga has a connection to the crime.  They’re right.  And if that’s not enough, Riga is drafted as the host of a reality TV show about the local lake monster, and her niece is rejecting her metaphysical abilities.  Juggling demons, daimons, and angry tarot card readers, Riga must catch a killer before she becomes the next target.

The Alchemical Detective is a paranormal mystery that explores a world of alchemy and the imagination.

Author Bio:

Kirsten Weiss is the author of two paranormal mysteries available on the Kindle: the urban fantasy, The Metaphysical Detective, and The Alchemical Detective.  She is hard at work on the sequel, The Shamanic Detective. 

Kirsten worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the Afghan war zone.  Her experiences abroad not only gave her glimpses into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.

Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.

Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching True Blood and drinking good wine. 

Follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/#!/RigaHayworth, view her world boards on Pinterest http://pinterest.com/kirstenweiss/or check out her blog at http://kirstenweiss.com

Author site/blog:  http://kirstenweiss.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/RigaHayworth

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/metaphysicaldetective

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5346143.Kirsten_Weiss

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/kirstenweiss/