Books Are Magic: Excerpt & Giveaway: The Keys of the Watchmen by Kathleen C. Perrin

Welcome to the tour for the New Adult Historical Paranormal The Keys of the Watchmen by Kathleen C. Perrin.

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The Keys of the Watchmen by Kathleen C. Perrin

Katelyn Michaels plans on hating every moment of her visit to Mont Saint Michel with her father’s new French wife. Once there, she is confused when she experiences sensations of déjà vu and hears voices as she and her younger brother explore the medieval village and abbey.

When the oddly-dressed but alluring Nicolas slips Katelyn a strange medallion, she is whisked back through time with him to the 15th century where her Watchmen hosts tell her she is the only hope to save Mont Saint Michel from the invading English armies. Even worse, she learns those armies are led by a fallen angel intent on learning the mount’s closely-guarded secret.

Katelyn is torn by feelings of anger at being taken back in time, inadequacy at finding a modern solution for a medieval problem, and responsibility for the mount’s starving inhabitants. She is also perturbed by her surprising attraction to the ill-tempered Nicolas. Will she stay to learn why she was chosen by the Archangel Michael and find a way to save his mount?

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EXCERPT FROM
Chapter 36

Nicolas turns to the right and hugs the shoreline of the mount some distance around the island before he heads out into the open sands. I match him step for step. I understand what he meant about the sand pulling shoes in. In some spots, I can hardly pull my feet out of the goo. Nicolas is walking quickly, confidently, not using his stick yet.

After about twenty steps, I feel the coldness of water and the heavy tug of a current. This must be the Couesnon River, which has cut a shallow channel in the sands, and is being pulled out to sea with a tremendous amount of force. Without his stable strength, I would fall. The water comes up to our knees, but we get through it quickly. Then when we reach the other side of the channel, Nicolas begins to use his ‘divining rod.’ It’s a slow, methodical process as he bends slightly to inspect each stick placement. From that point onward, every foot closer to the shore is a victory. At times, we’re forced to move sideways. As we zig and zag, attempting to make forward progress, Nicolas pats my hands clenched around his waist, as if to reassure me that all is well.

I can no longer feel my feet, but I still match his every step. At one point, he stops completely, and I feel the whistling of something close to my ear. An arrow! I recognize that unhallowed sound from my escape from the English ship. But unlike that experience, there is no shouting, no sound of angry Godons. We remain standing stationary like that for at least a half an hour, and all the while, Nicolas squeezes my hand. I don’t even want to know what just happened, but I trust him.

The sound of our breathing under our makeshift tent is the only sound I hear. And the staccato clogging of my heart begging for relief because I can feel my feet again, and they’re a pulsing mass of pain. I want nothing more than to move, sit down, or run. Just standing there without moving an inch is one of the most painful things I’ve ever experienced. I feel the throbbing in my arm and thigh as the blood pumps against my stitches, threatening to explode. I think I might die if I have to stand immobile for one more instant but I can’t let Nicolas down. I promised I would do exactly as he says. And so I do.

Finally, he shifts slightly to the side and I breathe out in relief at being able to move, but he stops again. I bite my lip to keep myself from screaming out in agony. And then slowly, step by miniscule step we continue. However this time, he stops after every step and waits for what seems an eternity, but is probably only about five minutes. Now I really know what it means to cross the Fire Swamp, avoiding the flame spurt, fighting the Rodents of Unusual Size, and navigating the lightning sands, and it is by far the most difficult voyage I’ve ever made.

When my feet touch a different texture, I don’t even realize it at first because they are so numb. Not until Nicolas pulls me down to the ground do I realize we’ve made it to the mainland. We’re in the salt marsh, the tufts of salty grass I remember from our drive to the island. I’m hoping we might find some of those salt marsh sheep. They’d be just fine in place of a fat pig.

After we remain flat on our stomachs for another eternity, Nicolas finally sits up. He pulls my shoes and socks out of his knapsack and hands them to me. I can hardly get them over my swollen, frozen feet, but I finally begin to feel some relief. I’m grateful they’re dry. Nicolas puts on his sabots. He won’t find any warmth from them, but they will provide some protection. He indicates that we’re going to move along the marshy land on our bellies. The ordeal is not over. I’m beginning to wish I’d let Nicolas go alone after all.

It takes us at least another two hours of working our way over the damp, bumpy terrain. Now, it’s not only my feet that are cold and wet, but every inch of my body as well. I’m grateful that Nicolas’s course robe is between me and the ground, because it provides some protection for my wounds. Now I know why the Montois are starving. I’d just as soon starve as go through the Fire Swamp ever again. And then the reality hits me: I’ve got to go back the same way I came.

Finally, we make it to a dilapidated farmhouse. Nicolas pulls me to my feet and we press ourselves against the wall as we work our way around to the door. It hangs askew, and creaks as he attempts to open it. Inch by inch, he creates enough of a gap for us to slip inside. When we finally make it, I collapse with fatigue.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen C. Perrin holds Bachelor’s degrees from Brigham Young University in French and Humanities, and graduated summa cum laude. She is a certified French-to-English translator. While completing her education, Kathleen met and married a dashing young Frenchman. They have spent years investigating the mysteries and beauties of his native country, and have a cottage in Brittany. For a ten-year period they took tourists to Mont Saint Michel, where she served as tour guide.

Kathleen has lived in Utah, New York City, France, and for eight years in French Polynesia. She has worked professionally as a language and music teacher, translator, interpreter and writer. She has published several non-fiction articles, academic papers, and a religious history about Tahiti.

Traveling and learning about new countries and cultures is a passion for Kathleen, but her latest passion is sharing the mysteries of France through her fiction.

The Perrins have three children, and currently reside in Utah.