A world of myths. A battle for survival.
Kidnapped from NYC and thrust into Tir Naâa dangerous world where myths and legends truly existâcollege student Finley Maguire is named the prophesied savior destined to stop a mad kingâs rise to immortal power.
But Finley isnât a warrior, and dealing with deadly court intrigue, her intense training, and even fiery dragons might kill her before the prophecy ever has a chance.
As war looms, she must decide: fight for a world she doesnât understand, or risk losing everything to a king who will destroy it all.
A world of myths. A battle for survival.
Kidnapped from NYC and thrust into Tir Naâa dangerous world where myths and legends truly existâcollege student Finley Maguire is named the prophesied savior destined to stop a mad kingâs rise to immortal power.
But Finley isnât a warrior, and dealing with deadly court intrigue, her intense training, and even fiery dragons might kill her before the prophecy ever has a chance.
As war looms, she must decide: fight for a world she doesnât understand, or risk losing everything to a king who will destroy it all.
Run!
The voice screaming at me was mine. From a distant, foggy, back
corner of my mind.
Run, dammit!
But my body simply refused to listen. I stood there. And stared. With my
mouth hanging open.
Now!
âOkay! OkayâŚâ I said. Out loud. To myself.
I was a bit drunk. Well, actually I was a lot drunk. But I hiked up my dress
and started walking on bare feet across the slick tiles.
Running was not my thing. I used to tell friends that if they saw me running
theyâd better turn and run because they were about to die.
And running after a long night of partying? Sooo not the best idea.
But I had to get away from the creepy tall guy in the dark robe staring down
at me. He stood between me and the rest of the people at the party. And no
one was going to hear me yelling over the loud music.
Only bad part was that my boozy brain and feet were not on the same page. I
stumbled a few times and completely fell on my face rushing to the fire escape.
But I made it to the ladder and when I looked back, he was storming across
the terrace after me.
I tried to get a good look at his face, but the hood on his robe was pulled
down. And he was carrying my shoes and phone in his hand.
He wanted no trace of me left behind.
Taking a deep breath, I heaved myself over the low wall and onto the fire
escape. My palms, slick with sweat, gripped the slippery metal ladder as I made
my way down. The first landing wasnât far, but, of course, as a tall girl I just
had to channel my inner klutz halfway thereâmy foot slipped, skidding off
the rung. My fingers scrambled, gripping the metal bars like my life depended
on itâbecause, well, it literally did.
And then, gravity said, âNot today.â My hand slid, and I dropped like a sack
of questionable decisions onto the landing grate and rolled toward the edge.
The impact rattled me, and I barely managed to grab the rail before I went
tumbling to the street below.
For a moment, I just held tight, doubled over, staring down at 110th Street.
The bright lights of the Upper West Side blurred as a delivery truck rolled by.
My breath came in frantic gasps, each one stabbing through the lingering haze
of tequila and adrenaline clogging my brain.
âGet it together,â I hissed to myself, trying to sound like a badass, even
though my shaking knees and pounding heart gave off a completely different
vibe. This wasnât the time to panicâI could have my meltdown later,
preferably somewhere with fewer heights and more snacks.
At the next landing, I dared to look up. He stood there at the edge of the
rooftop, a dark silhouette against the pre-dawn sky. I could not see his eyes
but his stillness created a cold intensity that raised the hair on my neck, my
arms.
I scanned the empty street below, searching desperately for anyoneâa
passing stranger, someone talking on their phone, a storefront light flickering
on. But it was four in the morning, and the entire block lay silent and deserted,
swallowed by the goddamn shadows.
Sweat burned as it ran into my eyes. I swiped at it with the back of my shaky
hand before continuing my descent, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Earlier that day, I shouldâve let the call go to voicemail when my dadâs number
popped up. But I answeredâŚ
And thatâs what started this whole mess.
I sat at my dorm room desk, absently sketching out a cocktail dress on a
notepad, the lines flowing easier than the hours I spent trying to focus on
classes. My textbooks were stacked on the far corner of the desk, looming like
a silent reminder of everything I was supposed to be doing. My junior year
should have been winding down smoothly, but with barely enough credits to
call myself a freshman, the gap was a pretty big canyon.
Fury overwhelmed me when my phone rang, cutting through the quiet.
Everyone who really knew me knew the rule: donât call, just text. And thenâŚ
donât text. But my father was the exceptionâthe one person who ignored
my rule completely. I felt my shoulders tense as I rubbed at my forehead,
bracing against the dull ache already creeping in, anticipating the familiar
conversation that lay ahead.
I scooped up my phone. âWhat?â
âIs that any way to answer the phone, Finley?â
He called me Finley and not FinâI was in trouble.
âWhat do you want, dad?â
âWell, your mother just forwarded me your midterm grades. And I do not
like what I am seeing.â I could hear him clacking away on his keyboard.
âMom knows how to forward something? Wait! She was sober enough to
check her email? Wow.â
âFinleyâŚâ
âDadâŚâ
âI am paying a shitload of money for you to go to school andââ And he
rambled on like that for a few minutes, but I ignored him. (Oh, and for your
reference: a shitload is more than a buttload but less than a fuck-ton.)
âFinley? Finley?!â
I put the phone back to my ear.
âI know all this. Iâm working on getting my grades up, dad. I really am.â
âItâs not the grades, Fin! So much as it is these weird classes! You started
off Pre-Med and failed miserably⌠yet again. Youâve been kicked out of two
schools! And you agreed to switch to a finance major, but⌠none of these
goddamn classes make any sense!â
I always considered myself to be kind of smart, but you would not know it
from my school progress so far. After being thrown out of my second
prestigious school for piss-poor grades (âcalculated mediocrityâ) and âa lack of
respect for the integrity of the academic processâ as I recall one letter stating,
my father demanded that I get my act together (a favorite phrase of his), start
studying, and actually attend classes. The right classes.
âI donât⌠Iâm not sure I want to be a finance⌠person,â He had this way of
making me feel like an eight year old caught eating cookies before dinner. âI-I
donât think thatâs what I want to do.â
âAnd what do you want to do? Be a loser your whole life?! Jesus, Fin!â
I held up my sketch of the dress, afraid to tell him the truth. âI donât know.
I have no idea. Who does when theyâre twenty years old?â
âMost people have a pretty good goddamn idea by then, Fin! I did!â
âWell, Iâm⌠Iâm not most people. And Iâm not you, soââ
âLook, you have a job waiting for you here at Ronin! When you graduate!
But you gotta show your bona fides! Youâll start low six figures, right out of
school!â
âI know. But maybe itâs not about money with me, you know. What if I want
toââ
âYouâve got your accounting courses out of the way, barely⌠But what the
hell is Fashion Marketing, Textile Science, and⌠Drafting and Sewing? Are these
actual college classes?! You donât need any more electives! Oh, and everything
is about money, Fin.â He exhaled deeply. âEvery. Thing.â
You mightâve heard of my fatherâSean Maguire? Heâs a big-shot hedge
fund manager at Ronin Advisors in New York City, the kind of guy whose name
gets dropped in glossy magazines and overpriced power lunches. And my
mother? Well, letâs just say her portfolio leans heavily into vodka futures.
They live in a sprawling Greenwich mansion, complete with manicured lawns,
a pool more decorative than practical, and just enough distance from the city
so he can feel like he belongs among the elite.
âIâm at the end of my rope with you, hon. Youâre a girl! Girls are supposed
to be good at school! You donât want to end up like your uncles, trust meâŚâ
We come from stereotypical Boston Irish stockâthe kind thatâs been woven
into the fabric of Southie for generations. My dadâs brothers, his father, and
even his grandfather wore the blue with pride, serving as cops and trying to
keep their neighborhoods in line. The kind of men who talked with their hands,
drank whiskey straight, and carried a sense of duty much heavier than their
guns.
But my father? He had other plans. The Irish temperament, if youâre
unfamiliar, is equal parts ego, hot temper, and mule-headed stubbornness,
shaken up and poured into one tenacious human. My scrappy dad leaned into
that cocktail, ditching the family tradition for something flashier. He traded
the badge for a slick suit and a sleek briefcase, heading to NYC to carve out his
fortune off the backs of the well-heeled and overpaid.
âYou have the chance to be a successful advisor at one of the most prestigious
firms in Manhattan! People would kill for this opportunity! And if you donât
straighten up and fly right, I will cut you off. Do you understand me?â
âYes. I do⌠butââ
âGet it right, Fin. Bye.â
Thatâs how most of our conversations wentâmassive disappointment was
piled on and various threats were madeâand, as always, I was too spooked
to defend myself. What did I want to be when I grew up? I thought maybe a
doctor. Or a fashion designer. Or a writer. Oh, or a fashion writer! But financial
advisor? Hell no. But all I ever got was, âDecide what you want to beâas long as
I approveâor Iâll take away your money!â
So now that I was completely irate, I needed some revenge. Now, I consider
myself to be a recovering introvert. I love being alone. Mostly because Iâm the
only person who will put up with me. I dread being around people. But⌠Iâm
also kind of a smart ass. Even got voted Class Clown back in high school. And I
was constantly getting in trouble, being sent to the principalâs office at least
once a week. So, passive aggression was my only outlet. I did what I always
do⌠I took out my anger on him⌠passively.
Searching online for his landscaping company in Cos Cob, I called them up,
using my motherâs slurred Boston accent, and told them: âHi, this is Missus
Maguire. Yes, on Putnam Avenue. I would like you to come to ah house and
remove ah front lawn today. Yes, that is correct. Take out the enti-ah lawn. And
it must be done by tonight! Iâm going to install rocks tomorrow so I can plant
my succulent garden. And donât bother me in the houseâI feel a migraine
coming on. Thank you so much, dear. Buh-bye!â
My fatherâs lawn was his pride and joyâlush, green, and obnoxiously
perfect, like something out of a country club brochure. Honestly, Iâm pretty
sure he cared more about that stupid patch of grass than he ever cared about
me. And now? The landscape company was coming to rip it all out. Every last
pristine blade.
I sat back in my chair, the corners of my mouth twitching as I tried to hide
the satisfaction bubbling up. Grabbing my drawing pad, I started doodling,
each stroke fueled by a glorious mental image of the chaos to come. By the
time I finished, I was grinning like a kid with the keys to the candy store.
I started across the fire escape landing, but tripped on the grate. My knee got
bruised up, but I felt nothingâthe pain was swimming upstream against the
booze. Apparently.
Frustrated, I shouted up at the penthouse party. âThis is your fault,
Genevieve! Iâm going to die because of you!â
The creepy guy had vanished; he wasnât climbing down after me.
Had he given up? I wasnât about to wait and see. Heart still pounding, I
plummeted down the metal stairs, refusing to slow down.
Finley Maguire has enough on her plate trying to get through her junior year of college and dodging calls from her overbearing father. When a drunken escapade at a party winds up linking her to a powerful mage, she suddenly finds herself thrust into Tir Na â another world where the myths and legends everyone claims are make believe in the real world truly exist. Rise of the Dragonwitch is about a young woman thrust into a fight for survival. Prophesied to be the chosen one who can save Tir Na from a tyrannical king, Finley leaves homework and New York City behind for the scandals of court, intense training, and magical creatures â even dragons, some of which may just kill her before she can fulfill her destiny. With Tir Na on the brink of war and Finley being one of the most important pieces in the game, can she fight for this new world she has yet to fully grasp, or let it all fall to a ruthless king hellbent on destroying it.
Rise of the Dragonwitch has a sharp hook that drew me in from the first sentence. The book starts off right in the middle of the action, with readers being introduced to Finley as she flees from a mysterious robed man who seems to be stalking her at a college party, but who in fact is a mage from another world. As readers travel with her from the bustling streets of Manhattan to the danger and intrigue of Tir Na, they are treated to a full arc where we see Finley transition from a young woman bristling at the thought of taking on more responsibility as her admission into the adult business world looms closer to a determined heroine who, while never losing her sharp tongue or snark, learns what it means to come into oneâs own destiny. Finley has a powerful voice that will appeal strongly to young adult women ranging from their teen years up through their thirties or forties.
If you are a fan of epic fantasies with fierce, outspoken female heroes, Rise of the Dragonwitch will be a phenomenal addition to your To-be-read list.