Spiritual thriller / Supernatural suspense with Catholic themes
Publisher: Covenant Books
Publication Date: February 13, 2023
Page count: 268 pages
SYNOPSIS:
What if the storm chasing you isn’t the one outside… but the one
within?
Set in the shadow-soaked streets of New Orleans, Intercessor is a
gripping faith-infused thriller that blends supernatural suspense with
profound spiritual reflection.
Jim Hampton is a burned-out lawyer who
walks away from his high-stakes career in search of peace. Drawn to the
mystique of the Crescent City, he hopes distance will quiet his doubts and
regrets. Instead, as a tropical storm intensifies into a devastating
hurricane, Jim finds himself trapped in a far more dangerous tempest—one
filled with demonic forces, divine intervention, and a battle for his soul.
Guided
by the enigmatic bartender Myriam, Jim is forced to confront his lapsed
Catholic faith amid blackouts, chases through the French Quarter, and
encounters that defy logic and reason. As darkness closes in and evil tightens
its grip, Jim must decide whether redemption is truly possible—or if
some storms are meant to destroy.
Near the novel’s stunning climax,
a miraculous event inspired by the legendary “dancing sun” at
Fatima transforms terror into revelation, reminding readers that grace can
break through even the deepest despair.
Perfect for readers who enjoy:
● Faith-driven thrillers with spiritual
depth
● Supernatural suspense rooted in real-world belief
● Stories of redemption, miracles, and personal awakening
● Atmospheric settings rich with culture and mystery
Intercessor is more than a thriller—it’s a powerful reminder
that in life’s darkest moments, hope may arrive in ways we least
expect.
👉 Pick up Intercessor today and discover how grace can guide you
through the storm.
John Robert Still is a lawyer based in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and the
author of the faith-infused thriller, Intercessor. Drawn to stories that
explore suspense, spirituality, and the search for meaning, John writes
fiction that wrestles honestly with faith, redemption, and the mysteries that
shape our lives.
Intercessor is his debut novel, inspired by visits to
New Orleans and a fascination with the city’s rich culture, history, and
spiritual contrasts. His writing journey began as a deeply personal
exploration of life’s harder questions—particularly around belief,
purpose, and grace—and evolved over several years into a gripping
supernatural thriller shaped by thoughtful revision and early reader
feedback.
When he’s not practicing law or writing, John enjoys a
wide range of hands-on pursuits, including beekeeping, bonsai cultivation,
growing tobacco and rolling his own cigars, and cooking—especially Cajun
and Creole cuisine. These passions reflect the same patience, craftsmanship,
and respect for tradition that inform his storytelling.
ISBN-13: 979-8898201173 / Digital ASIN: B0G2THCGQB
The truth will set you free – or it will kill you.
Kat Lawson’s new undercover assignment has turned deadly. A trip to Vietnam to write a travel feature for Journey International while making a drop to deliver cash and passports for a top-secret operation has gone awry. Kat has a choice to make and a target on her back. She can live with a secret, or she can reveal a truth that puts her in the crosshairs of an enemy sworn to kill her. With the lives of trafficked children at stake in a country where agents and double agents trade secrets, Kat must choose between the acceptance of a truth that will forever change her life or living a lie that will save the lives of others.
After 25 years in news and talk radio, Nancy Cole Silverman retired to write fiction. Her crime-focused novels have attracted readers throughout America, and her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies. Silverman writes the Carol Childs and Misty Dawn Mysteries (Henry Press) and the Kat Lawson Mysteries (Level Best Books).
On an
alternate earth, a cataclysm has altered a subset of the population. Talents
are persecuted for their psychic and physical mutations, giving rise to two
conflicting societies based upon maintaining genetic purity. And the Source, a
shadowy corporate entity dependent upon the exploitation of captive Talents, is
hunting them…
Flynn
Scot is spiraling.
After a
cataclysmic chain of events and devastating loss, Flynn’s grasp on reality is
slipping. Backed into a corner by the Assembly and his sanity called into
question, the threat of exile and having his talent stripped endangers not only
him, but any chance he might have of getting his family back…if they’re not
already past saving.
Deep
in stasis, Kara’s fate is uncertain.
Stolen
away and in the clutches of a madman, Kara’s future depends solely upon Titus’s
sufferance. With unfettered access to her genome, his attention is fixated upon
the next iteration of Talents—especially after events in the North change her
status from prize to bait.
Because Flynn is coming
for her, and he’s not coming alone.
Cal grimaced and climbed to his feet as Glynfyls stopped shaking. He
clutched his breast, groping for the ward Miriam had set some thirty-odd years
ago that tied Flynn back to him. Please, God… Cal exhaled, his knees buckling in relief. Still there. Felt
different, but the boy wasn’t dead.
Not yet at least.
His gaze slid from the calamity outside the window to the blood
spattered across the wall and the gore-soaked carpet. In the unlikely event
House Scot survived the next seventy-two hours, the whole damned room would
have to be gutted. He dropped the last of his cigarette and ground it out beside Cordelia
Kerns’s corpse.
And if they didn’t survive, screw the resale value. What a goddamned mess.
“Here’s a spot, there’s a spot…” he muttered to himself, bastardizing lines from his brief stint in
community theater. Seemed appropriate. He couldn’t clearly remember his last wife’s smile or the faces of any of the children he’d buried, but every goddamned line from that play, every goddamned
moment he’d spent with her, was seared into his memory in high goddamned definition.
Her. Elize. Lizzy. His Lilith.
Cal ran a shaking hand down his face. Squatted. Knees cracking, he leaned forward to lower Kerns’s lids and cover the look of surprise in her grayed-over baby blues, his gaze locking on the imprint of a
bloody crescent between her brows—
A flash of memory—the same mark on his second wife—hit him hard.
He stumbled into a chair and pulled out his pouch of tobacco, cursing
the tremor in his hands. Fingers fumbling, he threw aside the botched attempt.
Deep breath. Rolled another. It was passible, barely. He lit it. Blew out a
frenetic puff of smoke and spat tobacco from his lip.
His gaze drifted back to Kerns’s corpse. Another woman with her throat slit. Wasn’t related to Julia’s earlier demise, but that wouldn’t stop Crandall and the city’s rumor mill from having a goddamned field day with it.
Christ. Between that and Flynn’s tantrum destroying everything as far as the eye could see, House Scot was on
borrowed time.
And when the press caught wind of Kara’s abduction, it would be worse.
What a clusterfuck. If there’d been any place to go, Cal would’ve started packing his bags, but this time, there wasn’t. Jane—Mother—had made sure of that.
He blew out a ragged stream of smoke and glanced at the couch as he
brought the sad excuse for a cigarette to his lips again. Kara’s cat glared back. Miserable animal was wrapped around Fitz’s throat with its green eyes narrowed. Cal frowned at the rise and fall
of the boy’s chest. Looked like taking pity on fuck ups was still part of Elize’s MO.
Not that the boy was losing any sleep over his brush with death. He was
sawing wood like he didn’t have a care in the world thanks to Nora’s induced coma. Must be nice.
Cal took another drag, cursing himself and the lingering scent of Elize’s perfume. The barest hint of bergamot dragging his mind back to that
first summer they’d met. To the stolen kisses during rehearsals. To the way the lighting had hit the curve of
her cheek and the look she’d throw over her shoulder as she sauntered into the wings. Christ, that
still got his dick hard.
Too bad her seduction had been as much of a role as the one she’d played on stage.
He’d hauled sets around the whole damned summer for that shit, podunk
production to be close to her. Senator Dashell’s daughter. What she’d seen in the son of a pig farmer—Christ. In retrospect, he knew exactly what she’d seen. Or rather, what her father had. Man hadn’t blinked twice at pimping her out for twelve hundred acres just
outside of town where the Corporation could build their research facility.
And damn them, but they’d gotten it.
Why her and her brother had stuck around after, slumming with the five
of them—
Cal shook his head, staring at the blood pooling beneath Kerns. What
was done, was done, and his hands had never been clean. No. He’d been up to his goddamned elbows in this shit from the get-go, but
this right here? This was gonna sink him and everything he’d worked for since.
As intended.
He fished the slip of paper Elize had left on Kara’s pillow from his breast pocket, his fingers shying from the braid
coiled beside it. Entwined E’s on the letterhead and beneath the monogram, a set of coordinates with
four damning words.
40°49’26.99” N-73°55’20.99” W
Queen takes pawn.
Check.
Elize…Enoch…the twins were just pieces, not who he’d been playing against. Cal stroked a heavy hand over his mustache.
Knowing the message for the invitation it was.
Jane had made her move, and now it was his. For better or worse, the
endgame had begun.
AK Nevermore enjoys
operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent
every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores antiques,
and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or running down
the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.
Unable to ignore the
voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science
Fiction and Fantasy full time.
She pays the bills
editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen and writing a column on SFF. She also
belongs to the Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches
creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.
Compelling why-done-it featuring a stolen Caravaggio and corruption in European football set in atmospheric Madrid, Spain.
The Madrid Connection is the second book in author Tim Parfitt's intriguing art mysteries Connections series, featuring British art detective Benjamin Blake, but it can easily be read as a standalone novel. With a bevy of well-developed characters, a vibrant setting, and a robust, complex plot, Parfitt's tale had me glued to my seat, wondering how all its intriguing elements would come together.
Benjamin Blake is in Madrid to assist a client with an art restitution case when the renowned Prado Museum is broken into, a famous Caravaggio is stolen, and a beloved, elderly security guard is brutally murdered. When the government's Culture Ministry approaches him to help recover the missing masterpiece, he agrees, not realizing the theft was only the tip of a much more dangerous criminal plan.
Although Benjamin Blake is the engaging main character of the book and series, he is surrounded by several other well-developed characters, each with a strong presence in the complex storyline. Elena Carmona, Kai Leroux, Mie Zhang, Inspector Barroso, Borja Falco, and Lorenzo Martelli all tell critical parts of the story that Blake is attempting to piece together, even as he's warned off the case. I enjoyed these strong perspectives as the story unfolded.
An important aspect of the story is its vivid setting in Madrid, Spain. The city comes alive under Parfitt's touch, and readers get a definite feeling of place. The setting is almost a character in and of itself, with vibrant descriptions of sights, sounds, smells, everyday scenes, and the actions and attitudes of its people.
While the plot is complicated, each separate storyline is developed through the perspective of a specific set of characters, making it easy to keep things straight. Not all is tense and focused on the terrible murders, though, as some of the situations depicted have humorous results for Blake, such as his Airbnb fiasco and his experiences with the BiciMad city bike. However, there are some graphic depictions of violence, but they are appropriate to the scene and story. The author keeps building the suspense with some surprising twists as those investigating the murder and the theft follow the few clues they have, and the seemingly unconnected storylines eventually converge. There are some clever surprises on the way to the final resolution, and the story ends with an intriguing teaser for the next book in the series.
I recommend THE MADRID CONNECTION to readers of mysteries and thrillers, especially those with an interest in art, European football and betting, and Madrid.
The president is dead. His son’s pretending he’s not. And the corpse? Well, that’s missing.
When the CIA sniffs out whispers that an African general—who also happens to be the president’s darling son—may have murdered dear old dad and stashed the body like last week’s leftovers, they send in their best bloodhound: Agent Shawn Wayles. He’s good at two things—digging up dirt and getting shot at in places the U.S. swears it’s not involved.
This time, Shawn’s not alone. He’s paired with an LGBTQ couple who have more secrets than the Vatican and fewer moral brakes.
Their mission? Retrieve the dead president’s body from the general’s paranoid, trigger-happy security team.
Because in this twisted power struggle, it’s not the living who rule—it’s the guy in the coffin. And whoever has the corpse... controls the country.
Praise for The Missing Corpse:
"A work of fiction told with the force of truth." ~ The Niche
"Right off the bat, I could tell this was going to be a dark read. There is a real sense of menace and threat from the get go... Thoroughly enjoyed this and will definitely be up for reading any future books." ~ Donna Morfett, Goodreads Review
"I thought the plot was a fantastic idea and brilliantly written." ~ Claire Ball, Goodreads Review
Book Details:
Genre: Crime Thriller Published by: Black Writers Ink LLC Publication Date: September 11, 2025 Number of Pages: 379 ISBN: 979-8990984448 Series: The General's Project, Book 2 Book Links:Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Audible
Read an excerpt:
The General knew—like a rotting tooth you can’t stop tonguing—just how hard his old man had worked to hammer him into something resembling a real man, using boot camps, backdoor deals, and enough disappointment to fill a graveyard.
Before the president found Twitter—sorry, X—for him, he mostly just found disappointment. And not the subtle, quiet kind. No, this was loud, public, teeth-grinding failure. The kind that makes a father grip his whiskey glass hard enough to shatter it. The boy was dull. A wet match in a thunderstorm. The people ignored him like a pothole they’d grown used to swerving around.
The president, who fancied himself a blend of warlord and wise grandfather, had done all the right things—by dictator standards. He’d oiled the machinery, laid the bricks. He'd shipped the lad off to Sandhurst, the British womb for future coup-makers and ceremonial dictators. But the academy spat him out like a bad oyster after just one year. Reason? "Intellectual capacity insufficient for command responsibilities." That's British for “the boy was dumb as soup.”
Panic set in. The president, no stranger to coups or cover-ups, scrambled for another boot camp that would accept his undercooked progeny. And God bless Africa—it never disappoints. Egypt, under old mummy Hosni Mubarak, opened its arms. The president’s warning was clear as day and sharp as a bayonet: “If you fail here, don’t ever mention my name again.” The boy emerged months later with a piece of paper that said he could command a battalion. No one bothered to ask if it was his own handwriting.
Still not satisfied, Daddy rang his buddies in Langley. Mr. Taylor—CIA spook with a neck like a tree stump—hooked him up with a slot at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. That’s where the U.S. trained its foreign military friends—the ones that smiled for cameras by day and broke skulls by night. The General graduated. Barely. His grades so low they had to be excavated.
Back home, the president, desperate to turn the boy into something—anything—decided to mold him into a public figure. He hired speech coaches, media whisperers, ex-BBC anchors, even a former Miss Uganda who once read the weather on WBS Television. Still, every time the General opened his mouth in public, it was a horror show. His hands trembled like a leaf in a blender. He couldn’t pronounce words. Once, he called “sovereignty” soup-ver-nanny and the room went so silent you could hear careers dying.
But then came the miracle: Twitter. Well, X. Rebranded like a shady funeral home. The president's advisors—witchdoctors in suits—pitched a bold idea: give the boy a Twitter account. Hire a comedian ghostwriter. Make him sound dangerous. Sexy. Unhinged. Like Idi Amin with a smartphone.
Enter the ghostwriter—a washed-up tabloid journalist who once faked an alien sighting in Karamoja and got sued by a Catholic bishop. The guy was perfect. He knew how to stir the pot with one tweet and have the country boiling by lunch.
The General gave him ideas—half-mumbled thoughts between sips of imported whiskey—and the ghostwriter turned them into gold. Tweets like: Kenya has two weeks left. Consider this your final warning. #WeMarchAtDawn
The country gasped. The president “fired” the General. He even sent an apology to Kenya. A public scandal. Oh no, Daddy can’t control his baby boy! The media gobbled it up like pigs at a buffet.
Excerpt from chapter 24 of The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande. Copyright 2025 by Yasin Kakande. Reproduced with permission from Yasin Kakande. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Yasin Kakande is an international journalist, TED Global Fellow, and author of several critically praised non-fiction books, including "Why We Are Coming" and "Slave States," which offer fresh perspectives on immigration and geopolitics. His journalism career includes contributions to outlets such as The New York Times, Thomson Reuters, Al Jazeera, The National, and The Boston Globe. Yasin holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College and resides outside Boston.
