The Corpse Whisperer Book Tour & Giveaway

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The Corpse Whisperer

An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 1

by H.R. Boldwood

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Mystery

Welcome to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and badass zombie hunter.

“If you raise deadheads, you’d better be able to put ‘em down. Nobody said it was pretty. But in this day, when vampires aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and the dead are disposable pawns for necromancers, someone has to ante up. Looks like I won the lotto. Imagine my delight. You should thank me, really, because the world is batshit crazy.”

When the zombie population spikes and no one knows why, it’s up to Allie to solve the mystery. But there’s a hitch. She’s stuck babysitting Leo Abruzzi, a zombie-bitten gangster who’s turning state’s evidence. But the mob and a powerful necromancer will stop at nothing to take Leo and Allie down.

Allie Nighthawk is Anita Blake on steroids, with a fondness for leather and Jack on the rocks. She has a healthy dose of Stephanie Plum and Rachel Morgan in her, too, though she’d never admit it.

The battle between good and evil just got wicked fun.

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H.R. Boldwood is a writer of horror and speculative fiction. In another incarnation, Boldwood is a Pushcart Prize nominee and was awarded the 2009 Bilbo Award for creative writing by Thomas More College. Publication credits include, “Killing it Softly,” “Short Story America,” “Bete Noir,” “Everyday Fiction,” “Toys in the Attic,” “Floppy Shoes Apocalypse II,” “Pilcrow and Dagger,” and “Sirens Call.”

Boldwood’s characters are often disreputable and not to be trusted. They are kicked to the curb at every conceivable opportunity. No responsibility is taken by this author for the dastardly and sometimes criminal acts committed by this ragtag group of miscreants.

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There aren’t many good reasons for raising the dead, but there are plenty of bad ones — greed,
revenge, and absolute lunacy top the list. I’m Allie Nighthawk and raising the dead happens to
be my only talent. People are willing to pay for it. Go figure. I’m also one of the few corpse
whisperers who puts the “toys” away when clients are finished playing with them. Away, as in
hermetically sealed back in their coffins, with their disease-ravaged brains neutralized. That’s
shop talk for scattered, smothered, covered and chunked. The last thing we need is zombies
clawing up through the dirt like demented whack-a-moles, and gnawing on the residents of
Cincinnati.
I was born a corpse whisperer, twenty-six years and too many zombies ago to count. It’s a
genetic thing, like blonde hair or blue eyes, except that it’s … raising the dead. Yeah. Okay. It’s
not exactly the same. It involves different genetic markers.
Buy a vowel, people. The concept’s the same.
The supernatural abilities that come with this gift have increased with each generation. That
makes me very good at what I do. And a little dangerous. If you raise deadheads, you’d better
be able to put ‘em down. Whisperers like me take care of business.
I can remember a time when you never saw biters shambling in the streets. But things have
changed. Vampires aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and the dead have become disposable
pawns for necromancers. Someone had to ante up. Looks like I won the lotto. Imagine my
delight.
You should thank me, really, because the world is batshit crazy.