COVER REVEAL & GIVEAWAY: Chloe Shipton & the Quill of LeFay by Lynn Veevers
entrapment isn’t the same as dead. In a library that’s believed to be nothing more than a myth, Chloe’s spirit is separated from her body after witnessing another student’s murder. Try as she may she can’t remember what happened to her before she woke up as a spirit in the campus graveyard. As Chloe uncovers clues leading to the mythical library’s location and her body, a secret the Magical Parliament doesn’t want to get out, starts to unravel. Rogue sorcerers have infiltrated the school, intent on reinstating the Third Edict, and sorcery students are dying because of it. Destroyed long ago for horrific crimes against humanity, the return of the Third Edict would spell disaster for both magical and magicless societies. To prevent her own demise and the fulfillment of the Third Edict’s return, Chloe must find a way to reunite body and soul without giving the rogue sorcerers the weapon they need to succeed, a weapon only Chloe can activate.
The screams ripped at my heart as I listened to the desperation that permeated them, “Please don’t hurt me anymore,” the voice cried, “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”The girl’s voice in my mind was a familiar one, and not in a good way either. Unwanted concern weaseled its way into my heart because there was genuine pain echoing in her words. I tried shaking off the unsettled emotions her pleas left in their wake and headed toward the librarian’s desk again. I didn’t want to care about whatever jam she’d gotten herself into.
Suppressing the guilt that riddled me proved difficult, but for a short time, I was successful. Mrs. Martin checked out my books and the inescapable feelings of guilt kept growing as the desperate cries continued. Finally, my conscience
caught up with me as I reached for the door leading outside. A defeated sigh wiggled its way through my lips, and I cast my eyes upward because I couldn’t ignore this even if I wanted to.I needed to do the right thing, not because it was my first choice, but because I felt compelled to. My morals demanded nothing less. If someone was in trouble, you tried to help, even if you didn’t like them. That’s what my parents raised me to believe anyway, and so it didn’t make a difference that the girl’s voice belonged to Lydia Nostredame—the single biggest bane of my existence. Hate is a strong word, but my feelings toward Lydia were
something dangerously close to that. My gut told me not to get involved, to ignore my conscious and leave instead. Unfortunately, my intuition was next to never wrong. Maybe I should have listened to it. However, my views of right and wrong were a force to be reckoned with, and they weren’t pulling any stops. The two opposing sides battled it out as I stood there with my hand on the knob.
After a few moments of inner turmoil, my moral stance won out. So I left the door and headed back into the library. Lydia’s cries ricocheted through my head like a stray bullet looking for a mark. They became tortured screams as I
hurried in the direction my mind told me they were coming from.“Ms. Shipton,” Mrs. Martin said sternly. “We do not run through the Library!”I cringed at the sharpness of her tone and slowed my pace to appease the librarian. As soon as that same group of snickering girls snagged the stoic woman’s attention, I darted forward. Lydia’s screams had grown to a deafening intensity. Like the tolling of church bells, they drowned out every other sound. The sharp shrill of them poked at my temples, and the pain was worse than any migraine I’d ever had. My feet carried me across the familiar parts of the library and into the further reaches which were seldom ever visited—by anyone. That should have been my first clue.“Stairs—dark, ominous stairs, of course; why wouldn’t that be the case,” I sarcastically mumbled as I came to a door.I assumed I’d just never noticed the stairs. After all, I’d only ventured to this part of the library maybe once before. The stair’s door was only partially open but had it been closed I would have thought it was a broom closet. The stairs twisted down into the unknown depths, dimly lit, and narrowing by the second. I was starting to feel as if they might spiral on forever when I finally reached a stone floor. The smell of musty tomes and aged ink filled the stagnant air. There were rows upon rows of shelving easily fifteen feet high. Layers of dust covered sheet draped chairs and tables.
Cobwebs, also thick with grime, adorned most everything in this hidden library.“Please stop, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear—I don’t know anything,” Lydia screamed, but it was weaker than before.I was close enough by then to hear her conventionally. Her voice was drenched in terror and quivering with tears. It echoed and bounced off the milled stone walls of this underground secret I quietly snuck through. Once again my gut adamantly insisted that I turn back, but I stubbornly ignored it. My tendency to be good-natured had baited and lured me into the situation entirely. There would be no turning back no matter how much my intuition
screamed at me. I slinked through the columns of shelved books as the feeling of danger settled over my skin like static cling on a warm blanket. I glanced at my arm as goose bumps raced across its tawny surface and the thin layer of peach fuzz stood on end. The sensation sent an unsettling shiver running down the length of my spine. The further in I moved through the rows the thinner the air seemed to become. It felt like I was trying to breathe around a piece of food lodged in my throat. Sweet smelling smoke wafted around me in a lazy wisp as I stood at the edge of a row of books. I recognized the scent immediately as sweet grass, a common reagent used in spells.
Lynn Veevers is originally from Washington State. With her mother being from Christchurch, New Zealand and her father being a well-traveled retired Navy Chief, Lynn has always had a fascination with different cultures around the world. An avid reader, she prefers books that take her to a place she’s never been and teach her something new at the same time. The Young Adult Genre is her absolute favorite to read, so it
comes as no surprise that it is also her favorite to write. Lynn, on average,
pens two to three novels a year with the sequel to Pinnacle in the publishing
personalities are for their age group. What better reference than someone close to the same age as the main character? Her kids always have and always will be her greatest inspiration.