Praise for
C.E. MURPHY and The Walker Papers series:
Urban Shaman
âA swift pace, a good mystery, a likeable protagonist,
magic, dangerâUrban Shaman has them in spades.â
âJim Butcher, bestselling author of The Dresden Files series
Thunderbird Falls
âFans of Jim Butcherâs Dresden Files novels and the works
of urban fantasists Charles de Lint and Tanya Huff should enjoy this fantasy/mysteryâs cosmic elements. A good choice.â
âLibrary Journal
Coyote Dreams
âTightly written and paced, [Coyote Dreams] has a
compelling, interesting protagonist, whose struggles and successes will captivate new and old readers alike.â
âRT Book Reviews
Walking Dead
âMurphyâs fourth Walker Papers offering is another gripping,
well-written tale of what must be the worldâs most reluctantâ and stubbornâshaman.â
âRT Book Reviews
Demon Hunts
âMurphy carefully crafts her scenes and I felt every gust of wind
through the crispy frosted treesâ¦. I am heartily looking forward to further volumes.â
âThe Discriminating Fangirl
FRIDAY, MARCH 17, 8:34 A.M.
âWalker, Holliday, youâre up. Homicide in Ballard, probably domestic violence. Be there yesterday.â A set of sedan keys flew across the room at my head. I caught them painlessly, only because Iâd just come in the door and hadnât yet taken my gloves off. The guy whoâd thrown them at meâour lieutenant, Braxton, who was decent, hardworking, and who never impinged on my consciousness for a single moment beyond those I spent following his direct commandsâjerked his jaw at the door, indicating we should already be gone. I did a quick dance of shedding my coat, shrugging on my duty weaponâan item which, like Braxton, lay outside my realm of active awareness except when I was actually at workâand pulling the coat back on before my partner made it to the door.
Because my desk was three steps from the door, I got there first, and that meant I won: I got to drive. After nine months of that game, I wasnât sure why we bothered, be cause neither of us pretended Billy was the better driver. Not that he was a bad driver, mind you. Itâs just that it was the only class at the academy Iâd been too proud to come in anything but first.
He caught up to me and muttered, âI hate domestic cases,â as we headed out the door.
âI know.â Nobody liked them, which was part of why Billy and I were up on this one. Braxton tried to rotate the DV cases through the whole Homicide team, because under the best of circumstances, they were emotionally messy, and under the worstâwhich was more usualâcops ended up the bad guys no matter what they did. âCould be worse. At least a murder means there wonât be an outraged spouse trying to beat us off because her partner didnât really do anything wrong.â
âWalker, are you seriously telling me murder is preferable to a live victim who doesnât want to press charges?â
âThat wasnât what I meant.â It was, however, kind of what Iâd said. No wonder I let Billy do most of the talking at crime scenes. We drove over to Ballard while Dispatch offered a few more details on the homicide we were approaching. There was a pattern of abuse in the family, instigated by the wife, one Patricia âPattyâ Raleigh, against whom the city had twice pressed charges. Sheâd done anger management courses and then a short stint in jail. We werenât sure yet if it was herself or her husband, Nathan, or possibly both, who was the victim: one of their children had run out of the house, bloody and screaming hysterically about Mommy and Daddy being dead. The neighbor had called it in.
Billy left his coffee untouched as the information came in, muscle in his jaw bulging like flexible stone. âI hate domestic cases.â
âI know.â There was nothing else to say. I pulled up along the curb in front of the Raleighsâ ranch-style home a few minutes later, and we got out of the car. It wasnât a wealthy part of the city, the houses mostly from the fifties and sixties. They tended to look careworn, with sagging fences, older tricycles and swing sets in small front yards. A few houses stood out as having been renovated: fresh paint, new roofs, lawns trim and shipshape even though winter was only just letting go its grip.
The Raleighsâ house wasnât one of those. I glanced over it, then met the eyes of a broad-boned black woman standing in the next yard over. She had two kids with her, both white, both huddled against her strong form. Her hands were on their chests, over their hearts: protective, like a mama bear. She was probably the neighbor whoâd called in the 273D, and the kids were probably Nathan and Patty Raleighâs. I nodded to her once and she nodded back, then retreated to her front porch, taking the kids with her. Sheâd been letting us know where they were, and now planned to stay out of the way until we needed them and her. Most people intimately involved with a murder werenât that clearheaded. I chalked it up to equal likelihoods that she was involved or that she was very sensible, and followed Billy up the driveway to the house.