Showing results by author "Robyn Peterman" in All Categories

Just when I think everything is calming down, it ramps back up to eleven. On what should be one of the happiest and most romantic days of my life, the unthinkable happens. The ghosts I’d so kindly guided into the Light showed up on my front porch, including my dead husband. Something or someone is messing with the balance and if it’s not remedied, the Darkness will destroy the world.

Sun and naughty fun is off the docket. Eliminating deadly Dhampirs is at the top of the to-do list. Crap. How in the ever-loving heck does a bloody note written on a paper towel and rag magazines left by Satan turn into a Vamp-hunt for idiots who think creating Dhampirs to attain world domination is a smooth move? The secret life of the entire Vampyre species is now on the line.

Released from the magic pokey and paroled with limited power is enough to make any witch grumpy. However, if you throw in a recently resurrected cat, a lime-green Kia, and a sexy egotistical werewolf, it's enough to make a gal fly off the edge. Not to mention a mission...with no freaking directions. So here I sit in Asscrack, West Virginia, trying to figure out how to complete my mysterious mission before All Hallows Eve when I'll get turned into a mortal.

A dare is a dare. No self-respecting, slightly chubby, good-lookin’, crime lovin’ cat would ever pass up a dare. So I didn’t. Now, me and my boys are in hot water trying to figure out how to live on the right side of the law for a whole freakin’ week! This is complicated by a couple of hairy issues. Throw in a cryptic message from the Goddess, humans invading our town and evil, sticky-fingered groundhogs, and we have a hot mess on our paws.

How in the Goddess’s name did I get stuck at the Witchypoo Convention at Rump Arena in Hexington, Kentucky? Whoops...my bad. Rupp Arena in Lexington, Kentucky. Whatever. It’s like one cavernous indoor garage sale of “magic” crap. It’s nothing more than a convention of human wanna-be witches in pointy ankle boots and half-price black hats...Baba Yopaininmybutt sent me to root out the very evil shenanigans going down in the sea of faux witches, mummies, and vamps...Listen to find out more!

Vampyres don't exist. They absolutely do not exist. At least I didn't think they did 'til I tried to quit smoking and ended up Undead. Who in the hell did I screw over in a former life that my getting healthy equates with dead? Now I'm a Vampyre. Yes, we exist whether we want to or not. However, I have to admit, the perks aren't bad. My girls no longer jiggle, my ass is higher than a kite, and the latest Prada keeps finding its way to my wardrobe.

With a show to produce and my career as an actress on the line, I really don’t have time to die—especially violently. However, while that might not be on my agenda, it seems to be on other’s. Awesome. Instead of acting in my latest endeavor, I’m playing the real-life role of Reluctant Demon Who Has To Save The World—or at the very least, the hot hero.

According to Baba Yoscarybutt, it’s time for me to witch up or step back down into the Cornholio minor leagues. While Cornhole is definitely not my beanbag, I can’t stand to lose. I don’t want to be the next Baba Yaga. I’m doing just peachy as the Shifter Wanker who heals the clumsy idiots of Assjacket, West Virginia. I love my life. My werewolf mate is hotter than asphalt in August, my twins are adorable, my dad and brother rock, and I have real friends for the first time in my life.

Welcome to Hell. Literally. The Hell where the Prince of Darkness is hotter than Hades, Hell Hounds smell like brownies, and the Seven Deadly Sins are addicted to Facebook.... Not to mention the soundtrack in the Underworld is Journey. For real. I should have known no good could come from offing my parents in the space of 20 minutes no matter how psychotic and evil they were....

What’s a tree sprite to do when she’s stumped? Get to the root of the problem, of course. Only, I wood get stuck in a tree with the warlock I love camped out next to it, mea culpa-ing for being a turdwaffle for the last decade. What should I do about it? Umm...stay in the tree and enjoy the show.

With Sassy and Cookie Witch by my side, I'll get a handle on my dark voodoo - or doodoo, as I've renamed it - so Assjacket won't end up as one massive crater. And I need all the help I can get. An evil like we've never seen is gunning for us - specifically me.

And I thought being half Vampyre/half Demon was hard.... That's nothing compared to being a mother. Sweet baby Moses in a boob tube, there aren't any books on raising True Immortals, so let me give you a few tips.... Make a map of every closet and bathroom in your home if you enjoy having sex. Sleep deprivation can cause confusion, and a map will help if you have only seven minutes and 31 seconds. You're welcome.

Going to Hell has never been on my bucket list...until now. The fact that I can speak that sentence without laughing or losing my mind is absurd. However, my life has veered into a very tricky tale that rivals any of my books. The villain has been banished. I’ve written her right into an infernal doom. Unfortunately, a few of my very dear friends, fictional and real, have been caught up in the horror story, and they’ve taken the trip down under as well. It’s my fault, and I can only see one way out...a plot twist of epic proportions.

Thirty-nine was a fantastic year. I was married to the man I loved. I had a body that worked without creaking. My grandma, who raised me, was still healthy, and life was pretty damned good. But as they say, all good things come to an end. One year later, I’m a widow. My joints are starting to ache. Gram is in the nursing home, and dead people think my home is some kind of supernatural bed-and-breakfast. Gluing body parts onto semi-transparent people has become a side job - deceased people I’m not even sure are actually there.

Witches and glitches and testicle-obsessed cats...Oh my. One dilemma down and approximately 74,876,283 to go. I think being the Shifter Whisperer is hard - or Shifter Wanker as I enjoy referring to my new job - but healing wounded Shifters is easy compared to finding and eliminating the lurking freaking evil. Throw in a ghost, a potentially explosive ex-cellmate, a long lost dad and a smokin' hot werewolf who's convinced he's my mate, and suddenly it's party time - from hell. And this is my mission?

Midlife is sheer madness, and the facts of midlife are not taught in school. Unfortunately, some lessons are hellishly hard to learn. I thought I had it figured out. I was wrong. Proving I’m the Angel of Mercy is turning into a shitshow of epic proportions. Not too long ago, I was a 40-year-old gal with a stable and boring life ahead of me. Now? Not so much. I have celestial siblings who are no walk in the park. Their decisions can destroy my future. And of course, my predecessor has given me a month to do the impossible or I’ll lose everything that means anything to me.

Just when I thought life might be getting back to normal—normal being a relative word—I couldn’t have been more wrong. Marriage proposal from the Grim Reaper? Yes. Beautiful healthy baby? Yes. Friends and family safe? Yes. Ghost of my worst enemy sitting on my front porch? OMG. Yep. With the ghostly world imploding around me, I’m going to need more than superglue to repair it.

What does a hungry, pregnant witch do when her whole freaking town goes on a no-carb diet? I'll tell you what. She goes on the sly and conjures up some anchovy-chocolate chunk cookies dipped in hot sauce - that's what. Of course my cheating gets complicated when all of the magic in the world goes on the fritz. To solve that particular wrinkle, I'll have to finally find the source of the lurking evil.

I was a top-notch Were agent for the secret paranormal Council and happily living in Chicago, where I had everything I needed - a gym membership, season tickets to the Cubs, and Dwayne - my gay Vampyre best friend. Going back now would mean facing the reason I'd left, and I'd rather chew my own paw off than deal with Hank. Hank the Tank Wilson was the six-foot-three, obnoxious, egotistical, perfect-assed, best-sex-of-my-life Werewolf who cheated on me and broke my heart.

Three waxed cats, one Cookie Witch, a Brazilian gone bad, and the last name Bermangoggleshitz...not the best ingredients for a successful spell. Or is it? Avoiding the truth has been working out just fine for most of my life. I'm finally happy. I have friends and a kangaroo shifter who adores me. Never in my 29 witchy years did I think I would have a place to call home with people who truly cared. Now my BFF, Zelda, wants to have a chat. Can't crappy news wait?