Dear Jodi Meadows:
Since The Rappaport Agency has an interest in fantasy, I would be delighted if you would consider representing me and my suburban fantasy novel The Weapons of our Warfare.
Stephen is a ministry intern who has to deal with a cold war between his church and a coven heating up when a young woman who was lighting candles for the church turns out to be a mole for the coven. Even with an attempt to kidnap Beverly, the reverend’s wife, Stephen cannot cause a ruckus in the church if he wants to become associate minister someday. They find the coven outsmarting them as its power grows in ways they cannot understand, using its dark arts to impersonate church members, summon a fell beast with terrifying eyes, or even blow down brick walls.
The weapons of Stephen and his allies are limited: Self-denial in the face of temptation, the wisdom to penetrate illusions, and a willingness to endanger themselves when confronting powers beyond their understanding. The reverend is no help, so people wonder about Stephen and Beverly as they work together, though they don’t think in terms of themselves becoming a couple. And Stephen's greatest stumbling block might be his hope that the young woman who was a mole for the coven may just need someone to talk to.
The Weapons of our Warfare is complete and the word count is 99,000. I have had a short story published in the Star Trek: Strange New Worlds V anthology. I was once a ministry intern myself, and I live in the Seattle area.
Thank you for your attention.
Stephen backed the cell phone away and stared at it, searching for a way to say no to the reverend’s wife, who was alone this weekend and asking him to come over. The fact he was disrobing -- literally taking off his alb in the back room of the church -- magnified the awkward feel of the request. He had just finished performing Morning Prayer, so he reached his hand up to the dual snaps on the front of his left shoulder and undid them, freeing that edge of his white vestment. “Sorry you’re not feeling well. I did miss seeing you in the congregation.”
Beverly’s weak voice over the phone got louder, sounding surprised. “You can recognize individual faces?”
Stephen mugged a look at the acolyte, who might have heard. Joanna stopped in the midst of disrobing, her yellow sweater showing through the part in her white robe as if she were a bouquet of daffodils in delicate wrapping. The young woman motioned for him to muffle his cell phone. When he did, she gave him a mischievous grin. “Ha-cha-cha. Coven breaker. Heartbreaker.”
“Don’t be disgusting.” But the words smacked at his hesitation. This was the first Sunday since the breaking of the coven that Reverend Thompson had been out of town, so Stephen, as the ministry intern, had performed the worship service himself. Still single at age twenty-five, he wasn’t about to let this smart-alecky acolyte unnerve him.