Temple of Indra Series
Genre: Mystery, Adventure, Romance
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Date of Publication: February 3rd, 2015
Print Length: 215 pages
Word Count: 66, 400
Cover Artist: Rebecca Boyd
As a librarian, Sophia Marcil loved reading, especially books about ancient curses and reincarnation, but she never imagined the legend of the Purple Delhi Sapphire was true until she inherited it and was transported back to a past life where she was murdered. Now she knows that not only is reincarnation real, but so is the devil’s magic locked inside the precious gem. Just as she’s about to tell her boyfriend Cullen about it, he proposes with an engagement ring made from a piece of the very sapphire that’s cursed her. Reeling from the shock and surrounded by his family, she allows him to place it on her ring finger. As soon as it touches her skin, she feels herself being wrenched back in time.
Before she knows it, she’s wandering the hallway of an old Victorian house in the body of her great aunt. Unfortunately, her nemesis has also reincarnated in 1920—as one of her family members. Sophia struggles to locate the Purple Delhi Sapphire in time to prevent the deaths of those she loves, but she fails and returns to her present-day life, to the precise moment she left, with a deep understanding that her killer’s soul is also tied to the sapphire and every life she has, he is resurrected as someone close to her.
Her stalker ex-boyfriend Nick seems like a prime candidate this time but she’s convinced she’s a step ahead of him, thanks to a tip from a medium, she knows that if she uses the magic of the stone correctly she can trap Nick’s soul in the sapphire and save herself. But when Nick is murdered, she finds evidence that has her questioning everything she thought she knew.
Is Cullen husband material or is history doomed to repeat itself?
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/VCeG9eA09Fg
Fog descended, eerily beautiful despite the dingy residue it seemed to be composed of—producing an unwelcome metallic taste in my mouth. I lagged behind, pulling my scarf tight around my shoulders and taking in the outline of the buildings, which now looked even more Gothic and ghostly. They gave me a chill, or maybe it was just the weather. I had snowmobiled and skied on the frostiest of Canadian mornings and hardly ever felt the cold; I even slept with the windows open at times. But this cold was different from anything I had experienced. It cut to the core.
Of course I’d read about the smog of old London, when a million coal fires polluted the atmosphere, but the sound of the fog horn now blaring from the river made it real.
“Maggie,” Emily said with a cough. “We should duck into one of these places. We’ve got a pea-souper rolling in.”
Maggie’s soon-to-be mother-in-law gave a gasp. “A tavern is not a suitable place for a group of women and children.”
“Yes, I realize that but it’s bloody—sorry, it’s terribly bad weather out here—” Emily stopped. “It’s going to get worse and—”
“Mama, I’m cold,” Gigi whined. I gave her arms and shoulders a little rub to increase the circulation.
“What is this?” Marjorie asked through a muffled hand.
“Pollution from the—” I began and then clamped my hand over my mouth.
“No use chit-chatting. We should be there already. Let’s pick up our feet, shall we?”
Maggie, who was clearly uncomfortable, made a vague gesture with her hands and followed the formidable woman down the sidewalk.
As the ladies turned a corner, a man in a trench coat caught my eye. He’d been right behind us four blocks ago, and earlier in the day he’d loitered outside the dress shop. His fedora rode low over his eyes at all times and he looked to be about 5’11", coincidentally the same build as Eugene. I kept my eye on him for the next several blocks before he slipped behind a great stone church. I looked up and began to feel uneasy as I realized I’d now lost sight of the gang. In the growing fog, the iron fence surrounding it looked like rows of jagged black teeth. Don’t panic, I said to myself. Eventually I would catch up to them or come to a place I recognized and everything would be all right. I knew the name of the hotel we were staying in. The problem was that I was rapidly being swallowed up into the murk, and it was impossible to read the street signs which had now vanished into the fog above my head.
That’s when I noticed the slow, steady rhythm of footsteps behind me—keeping pace with mine. I turned but couldn’t see anyone. Probably just someone else out lost in this godforsaken weather, I told myself. Or the footsteps could only be a strange echo produced by the fog. I started walking again, stopped suddenly, and heard the footsteps continue another couple of beats before they too stopped. I had no choice but to keep going, so I increased my pace. Thankfully I glimpsed Marjorie’s skirt disappearing behind a building and took off on a terror in an effort to catch up, my mind conjuring the sort of thing that happened in the fog in some of Gigi’s old mystery novels. I rounded the corner onto a cobblestone side street and ran smack into something hard.
Palming my forehead, I realized the smog didn’t hang quite as low here, or maybe the cool breeze off the Thames River pushed it away. The bad news was, aside from the offending lamp post, the street lay empty. I looked up and noticed a sign that hung atop an old storefront, advertising rare books. Maggie must have reasoned with her mother-in-law and pulled the gang indoors. No better place than one filled with books.
Wandering into the shop through a brass-studded wooden door, I smiled to myself, taken in by the familiar smell of grass mixed with a hint of vanilla, my happy place. Books were a constant in my life, and this unmistakable smell always made me feel at home. The bell over the door jingled and a slender man of sixty with large brown eyes, a long nose, and a full gray mustache appeared, climbing down from the rolling ladder behind the counter.
He smiled at me as if he recognized a fellow bibliophile.
“Good afternoon, miss. May I help you?”
I looked around the quaint little shop. A polished table sat empty in the corner, offering up only a delicate brass lamp. Shelves lined the room and were packed with books at every turn but the store was also empty, unless Marjorie and the gang were hiding in an alcove. “Did a group of women come in here?”
“No, dear,” he replied and wrinkled his brow.
Turning to go back out the door, panic slammed into my chest. The man in the navy blue trench coat had followed me. He stood at the corner of the street, leaning against the wall, casually smoking and efficiently blocking my only way out. Half expecting him to turn around and spot me, my mouth went dry.
“Is everything all right, miss?”
Swiping a hand over my forehead, I brushed back a clump of sweaty hair. “I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone, that’s all.”
The shopkeeper stood still, watching me, his face creased with concern. Hastily I retreated, circling the room, studying the shelves and looking for a back door.
He followed me to where I stood browsing an older collection of Shakespeare. He pulled out a nineteenth-century edition of Twelfth Night and handed it to me. I flipped through the pages, to be polite, before handing it back.
“Something specific you fancy?”
“I’ll just take a look around on my own,” I said, then noticed for the first time the book in his possession.
“What’s that?” I asked, squinting; his hand covered the spine.
I followed him and he laid the book open on the counter, turning it sideways so we could both look at it. The scent of dust and pages that time had long since begun to degrade drifted out of it. It was the smell of the book I’d found in the library in my own time and seen prior to that in the alchemist’s study.
“It’s a collection of spells I acquired at an estate sale in Prague a few years ago.” He flipped the thin pages until he came to a poem printed neatly in the center of the leaf. “It looks to me like a book of magic,” he added, grinning.
A familiar feeling twisted within me.
Could it be?
Did you always wanted to be a writer? If not what did you want to be?
I wrote a lot of stories in creative writing class when I was a kid, a lot of poetry to release the angst as a pre-teen and I even had my own column in the local town paper as a sixteen year old but I was never thought of it as a career. I focused most of my creative energy on drawing, painting and acting when I wasn’t reading of course. I was the lead in a local play as a young adult and I set my focus to making it as an actress. Of course I did always say I was going to write an exciting biography after I retired from Hollywood. Boy has that ship sailed.
When the College auditions brought out a side of stage fright that I’d never experienced, I decided acting wasn’t for me and went to school for advertising which lead me to a career in technology and media sales. Something I did not find emotionally fulfilling but that I made a decent living at. I still read fiction every day, and when I got pregnant with my son, I decided to put my maternity leave to good use. So I wrote my first novel, The Temple of Indra’s Jewel.
The strange thing is, I never did anything with it—I didn’t know any other writers and so I had no idea how to get published. I went back to my career in sales, and it wasn’t until I attended the Ontario Writers Conference on a lark that I met and connected with fellow writer Marissa Campbell (upcoming book release) who invited me to attend Connie Sparacino’s writers group. It was there that I met the B7 ladies, A.B Funkhauser (upcoming book release), Yvonne Hess, Susan Croft and Ann Dulhanty who became my avid supporters providing insightful feedback and instrumental advice.
How long did it take to get published?
I’m the first to admit that patience is not one of my virtues so thankfully my time was mercifully brief compared to most—that is partly because I’m a person who believes in making their own fate. I took the bull by the horns and I self-published my first book. If I could do it over, would I? No, I wouldn’t do it the same way. I mean I didn’t even try to get picked up before publishing Temple. Like I said, I was very innocent of how the publishing industry worked. That being said, one never knows what could have been. Life is a series of stepping stones, so perhaps self-publishing my first book is why my second book got picked up. Many publishers now look at someone who has self-published as someone who is willing to dig in and help market. Or maybe it was why my second book got turned down by the agents that requested full manuscripts from me. There were quite a few interested, unfortunately for me at the time, I was told traditional publishers weren’t keen on a sequel to a self-published novel.
The one advantage to shopping the second novel was the invaluable feedback I received and so I must give a shout out to the acquisitions editor Jen Corkill at Divitir Publishing. She was interested in my manuscript and made suggestions, encouraging me to re-submit. In the end her suggestions clicked with me and the result was a new opening. It wasn’t too long after that I received the contract offer from Solstice Publishing. They contacted me only days after I submitted the revamped manuscript which had been the result of a #Pitmad contest request—God Bless Twitter and Brenda Drake for jumpstarting my career.
Do you do another job except for writing and can you tell us more about it?
No. Thankfully I have been writing full time for a year now and I love it. I do have little ones at home but my mother-in-law graciously babysits a few days a week allowing me to get some work done.
What is the name of your latest book, and if you had to summarize it in less than 30 words what would you say?
Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire is about a time-traveling woman whose destiny to be murdered by someone close to her in every life pits her against an obsessed killer.
Who is your publisher?
Solstice Publishing—one of the fastest growing mid-market publishers in the USA. They are a wonderfully supportive network of professionals and I am so grateful to them.
How long does it usually take you to write a book, from the original idea to finishing writing it?
Isn’t that just the magical question—I’ll let you know when I actually get into a routine of putting out books. So far I’ve published two novels, one short story and I’ve half written at least two other novels and they’ve all overlapped so at this time I have no idea what my timeframe truly is.
What can we expect from you in the future? ie More books of the same genre? Books of a different genre?
The Temple of Indra is a trilogy, so there is one more book in this time travel mystery adventure series coming out. I know, it’s really everything but the kitchen sink. After that I plan to spread my wings and try a few different genres although I suspect my heart belongs to mystery. I’m already half done a nice light murder mystery I classify as a beach read. I’d like to write a YA adventure as well as a mainstream thriller and maybe try my hand at a cozy mystery too. Why choose just one smartie when you can taste them all, right?
What genre would you place your series into?
Well I’ve managed to stay on the Amazon Bestsellers List for a week now in the Time Travel Romance category so I’m thinking I belong there although my book does have a reincarnation twist. I personally feel like Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire, is more of a mystery/thriller but the first book, The Temple of Indra’s Jewel was definitely romance adventure so it’s very hard to categorize it as a series. Which is why I’ve nicknamed my genre for it, the kitchen sink.
Do you read all the reviews of your book/books?
I think so, unless there are more lurking in the internetosphere that I’m unaware of. So far, I’m been very pleased with all of the reviews received on Amazon, Goodreads and some sent to me personally which I’ve pasted to my website.
Which format of book do you prefer, eBook, hardback, or paperback?
Ebook because the only time I have to read is right before I pass out and that is best done in bed in the surrounding darkness. It is my little piece of heaven that I look forward to EVERYDAY! Don’t get me wrong I still love physicals books but the lamp keeps my hubby up. Libraries are still my favorite place to chill.
What is your favorite book and Why? Have you read it more than once?
There are too many to list and yes I re-read them.
Which is you favorite/worst book to movie transfer?
How about favorite book to television series. Hello BBC and Diana Gabbaldon’s Outlander. Can it please be April already?
Your favorite food is?
Well hell, why don’t we just go with a full favourite cheat meal: salmon sashimi, spicy hummas with suicide sauce, a nice glass or two of Wallaroo shiraz and peanut butter cups. I feel like we’ve just gotten into our jammies and braided each other’s hair.
Your favorite color is?
Animal Print. That’s a color right? J
Rachel Stapleton spent her youth cultivating a vivid imagination inside the book lined walls of an old Victorian library where she consumed everything from mystery to biography, creating magical worlds, hidden elevators, and secret spiral staircases. At sixteen, she penned a column for the local newspaper and in 2006, wrote her first book featuring an adventurous librarian.
She lives in a Second Empire Victorian with her husband and two children in Ontario and enjoys writing in the comforts of aged wood and arched dormers. She is the author of The Temple of Indra’s Jewel and is currently working on a third book in the Temple of Indra series.
Visit her website and follow her on social media or sign up at www.rachaelstapleton.com to receive email updates.