Now On Preorder - With An Excerpt!

I've had several people ask why I haven't released many new books this year. The answer involves an idea that sprung into my head early one morning.

Meet Josiah Crews. Graverobber. To set it up, this series is taken from three songs by the band, Petra on their album Not Of This World, dated 1983. You can hear the title song for Book 1, sung by the lead vocalist, Greg X Volz on YouTube.

I decided it would be best to write the entire series at once, so though, I warn you, this book has a major cliffhanger, Book 2 will follow before Christmas, and Book 3, the first of the year.

Also, a brief note, I have moved my WINGS series to be on a page with this series, as they are of a similar flavor. 

You can PREORDER now for delivery to your Kindle on October 15th.  

He’d raised the dead, Lazarus-style.

Josiah Crews set aside his calling when his wife died. Consumed by grief, he buried his commitment to God and any thought of the lives he might save, determined to live a mundane existence. But when the death of a man in an alley brings the power of God onto the scene, a ripple of unusual events launches him back into service.

Veronica Murray moved to a tiny apartment in the city following a troubling divorce, but her teenage daughter’s behavior combined with their low income has made her life unhappy and stressful. When her neighbor reprimands her daughter, following a particularly bad outing, a friendship forms.

Except nothing is what it seems, not why people are dying, nor his reaction to it. Nor how it affects their possible future.

Here's a look at Scene 1, Book 1

~~An average man with an average job signaled for a taxi, lost in the rush of office workers, scurrying home. The sun blinded him, peeking between high rises, then winked as if it had a secret to tell and vanished.

“Forsyth,” he said to the driver, a faceless man with square shoulders, who nodded, unspeaking.

Six blocks might as well have been one hundred miles for the pace set by evening traffic, though, and soon, they’d slowed to no quicker than an inchworm. Tiredness and frustration expelled from his lips with a sigh, and he reached for the door handle.

“You know what? I’ll walk. Here.” He tossed a five-spot at the driver. “Keep the change,” he mumbled and struck out down the sidewalk, the soles of his loafers clicking on the littered concrete. Cigarette stumps, candy wrappers, even someone’s empty soda bottle whirled aside.

At the corner, he paused for the light to change then surged across the intersection stride-for-stride with a twenty-something, his head bobbing to a tune played on his phone. Back in his day, you needed strength to hear anything that wasn’t car horns and drivers cursing. He’d had a boombox, an enormous piece of electronics weighing some five pounds, and the hammer pants to go with them.

His toe caught on the curb, and he stumbled, catching his fall with a grasp of the light post. He halted to gather his breath, and in that second, the cab he’d abandoned overtook and passed him, a new passenger in the seat.

He muffled the curse he wanted to make, opting for a “Praise the Lord” he didn’t feel, and returned to his pace, his weariness growing with every step. He halted again, two blocks later, his feet aching, his little toe especially. He could take the alley and get there quicker.

Years ago, again in that same youth, his mama had told him never to take shortcuts. Why did he think of that now? Because the alley was dark?

Shadows stretched oily fingers toward him, cast from flickering yellow lights on the backdoors of several late-night businesses. The scent of garbage and decay, of urine, stung his nostrils. A cat hissed in his path, and he jumped sideways, his heartbeat hammering, and almost fell again. This time, he righted himself on a dumpster’s rolled edge.

The lights that made this place lurid caught the leg of a man sprawled face-down on the pavement. A canvas shoe, stained at the toe, the hem of a pair of blue jeans, frayed and damp. He caught his breath. All sorts of homeless in the city, though he hadn’t known this to be the haunt of any. And didn’t recognize this man.

He prodded him. “Hey, fella, you might want to get up from there.”

The man didn’t move. He could be drunk.

He crept closer, bending over this time, to shake the man. The stiffness of his limbs vied with the warmth of his skin, and that light struck the man again, outlining a hole carved through an overlarge t-shirt.

Dead? His stomach clenched, and his legs begged him to run in a spurt of fear that wrapped claw-like around his throat. Yet he held fast, for a reason he didn’t know and, a moment later, rolled the man face up. The cross around the man’s neck glittered, the religious symbol about two inches in length. Pasted to ebony skin, spotted with blood sputtered from the man’s lips, the irony struck him.

Again, for a reason he didn’t know, he reached for it, curling his fingers around the shaft. Giving it a tug, he removed it easily and cupped it, warm, in his palm. Too warm. Opening his hand, he released it, and it fell in slow motion, landing center of the man’s abdomen. Glowing orange, it neither cooled nor singed anything, and he bent down again, this time with purpose.

Flattening his hand over top, he spoke the words risen forceful on his tongue. “Get up,” he said. “In the name of the One who died for you.”

The color spread outward from the cross in a ripple that gave life to the dead man. His fingers moved, his hands, his feet, and an instant later, he sat up with a gasp. “Grave robber,” he said, the whites of his eyes shining in the darkness.

The office worker stared at him. “You know me?” he asked.

The black man’s eyes focused, life now coursing through him. He grasped the cross, clutching it to his chest. “Though he were dead, yet shall he live,” he said.

The office worker shuffled in reverse. “Not anymore.”

Urgency took hold to escape this place, to deny the memories, and the miracle which had taken place. Again.

Suzanne D. Williams, Author