The Witches of Claw and Fang - Book Tour and Giveaway

A hard-edged werewolf crashes into the life of an isolated witch who has temporarily given up her magic. They must overcome their differences and learn to harness their dangerous powers to stop a supernatural evil from corrupting their small town nestled in the Appalachian Mountains.

The Witches of Claw and Fang
by Zach Stivers
Genre: Paranormal Romance, Thriller

Welcome to the cozy mountain town of Pineville, Virginia. It’s autumn, the leaves are gold and orange, the apples are crisp and sweet, town residents are going missing, and a bloodthirsty monster with ten-inch claws is loose in the forest.

Morgan Reaves tries her damndest NOT to use magic. That’s why she hid in Pineville, after all. But now, Morgan needs to dust off her spell-casting skills, ASAP. Problem is, she may have lost her touch.

She has another problem, too, and it smells like wet dog.

Max: AKA the naked man with rip-cord tight muscles that stumbled out of the woods near Morgan’s house, ranting about curses and conspiracies and a coven of witches.

Is he a werewolf? Well, yes. But he’s also the only one who can help her defeat whatever evil is threatening her adopted hometown. That is, if they manage to not kill each other first...
 
 
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​The truck stayed on his tail the whole time. Didn’t try to hide it at all. At first, Max thought he’d just give the truck a run all the way over to the far side of the next mountain, but eventually Max would have to stop to get gas, so he decided he might as well get to it. His drill sergeant, lifetimes ago, had told him, “Ain’t nothing got easier by waiting around worrying about it.”
He circled all the way back to the gas station where he’d first come across the red pickup truck. He pulled in, stopped at the one lonely pump, and got out. He was onto his fourth beer at this point, and he swirled it in his hand as he pumped gas and watched the old truck pull in behind him. Max felt closer to Grim and farther from Maximillian with four beers in him. He shouldn’t be drinking this much, out here in the middle of nowhere, and he knew it. Especially this time of the month.
But knowing you got a problem is a hell of a lot different than managing that problem.
Right after he heard the pump handle click, the gas station lobby lights went dark, followed quickly by the neon ‘Open’ sign. It flickered, then went out.
The red truck inched uncomfortably close to Max’s bumper before the hillbilly brought it to a complete stop and shifted into park. The big man got out, still slow moving, and stared at Max.
Max stared right back.
The breeze had picked up, the wind gusting down off the mountain. The flagpole chain was dangling loose, and the metal clanged loudly against metal.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“I was worried you might get lost out on the roads this time a night. Wondering if you needed directions?”
Max raised a single eyebrow. “You were following me around for thirty minutes to make sure I didn’t need directions?”
Clang.
“We do that sort of thing out here: help take care of folks. Even city folks that don’t shake hands and have a ten o’clock shadow, dark eyes, and a bad attitude.”
In the distance, an eerie howl carried down the mountain with the wind. It was the same howl Max had heard lifetimes ago, on another continent.
Clang.
Clang.
The hairs on the back of Max’s neck stood upright. His ears tingled. He couldn’t help but cast a furtive glance toward the moon. He swallowed hard and clenched his fists.
Clang.
Clang.
He did not expect that trigger, not here, not now.
Keep it together, Grim.
--Let me out, Maximillian. It’s been so long.--
Goosfraba.
Max looked at the beer in his hand and tipped out the remaining third.
Lose it now, the career’s gone. The bank accounts. This identity. Everything.
--Let me out, Maximillian. You know its time.--
He hadn’t prepared. He was nowhere near any of his hideouts.
Clang. Clang.
Clang. Clang.
Vic chuckled. “Take ‘er easy, I’m not the cops. Don’t have to dump your beer.”
Max wasn’t listening; he was concentrating on his own mind.
The wind gusted. The pole chain clanged even louder.
Clang, clang, clang!
Clang, clang, clang!
What were the odds of running into another one, way out here?
Don’t give in.
--Let me out!--
“You look sick, city boy. Want to hop in my truck? I can take you somewhere safe.”
Goosfraba.
The wind whistled now, pushing trash and debris across the parking lot, sending the metal chain into a frenzy, knocking again and again against the pole.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Max could barely think straight.
“Goosfraba,” he said out loud, holding his hands up and pressing them against his ears. He felt a magnetism from overhead, pulling on his eyes, begging for him to turn and look up.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
“Boy, you need a real man to protect you from the big bad wolves?”
--LET ME EAT HIM, MAXIMILLIAN!--
Fuck it.
Max craned his neck, stared at the moon, felt the cold primal iron rippling below the surface. This time of the month, it was always so easy. Just sitting there in the sky, beaming down an intoxicating, hypnotic ray of pure lunar ecstasy. Max could slip right into Grim, no effort at all. He didn’t really even have to try to turn. He just had to stop resisting.
So, he stopped resisting.
It hurt whenever it happened, but despite the pain, shedding his human flesh felt sublime.
The bones snapped in his fingers, bigger bones splintered in his hands; his wrists dislocated as larger, thicker muscles exploded across his forearms. Jet black fur pushed out like barbwire across his skin. His mouth tore open, stretching wide, the skin at his lips splitting, a bloody gash slicing along his cheek lines to allow his mouth to continue to gape larger and larger.
From the tips of his fingers steel-sharp claws emerged, pushing off his human nails like old, dried skin. His eyes stung and his face felt pinched and a spasm shot down his spine. His calves trembled and his legs gave out and he crumpled toward the ground, head banging off the car door on the way down.
A moment later he stood back up, over nine-feet-tall, all pain forgotten. 

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Zach Stivers lives with his wife in Virginia, at the foot of the Shenandoah National Park. He loves to tell people they do lots of hiking in their free time, but usually they just go for a short stroll in the woods with their dogs and then stop off for a drink or two at the local brewery. That still counts as hiking, right? He has a degree in English Literature from Florida State University, runs really slow half-marathons, and leads an overly-competitive book club that reads a book a week … or else.
 
 
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