The Corpse Whisperer by H.R. Boldwood [Book Spotlight – Urban Fantasy / Mystery]

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
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.
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.



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.

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