EtS Welcomes Jodi Redford!

Today I’m happy to welcome Jodi Redford to our blog. In addition to her wonderful guest spot, she will be giving away a free copy of  “That Voodoo You Do” to one lucky commenter. So, be sure to leave a message and show her some EtS love! 😉


An epic battle of the sexes. Or: How to stave off a zombie attack with a Thighblaster even though it’s clearly a wimpy ass weapon compared to a George Foreman grill.

Hmm…that would make a spiffy blog post title. Even if it is a tad longish. It also happens to be the topic of a heated debate between my husband and myself while I was writing a scene in my current release, That Voodoo You Do. Let me set it up for you. My heroine is lying in bed, basking in post coital joy and completely clueless that her dead uncle has just shambled into the room with a real jonsing for a finger sandwich.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. How could I possibly think a Thighblaster would deter a zombie in such a situation? Pfff! As if. I originally wanted to use a George Foreman grill, because a) those puppies have some heft to them, and b) any product that’s backed by a heavyweight champion who boldly named five of his kids after himself would obviously put the unholy fear in any self-respecting zombie. What, don’t believe me? Hey, if you want to risk being grill-less the next time you’re cornered in a dark alley by your decomposing third cousin Jimmy, go right ahead. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Now I bet you’re wondering why I ultimately went with the Thighblaster when clearly good ole George’s grill is the preferred weapon in a zombie ambush. Here’s the rub. My husband had the audacity, the sheer gall, to point out one tiny, itty bitty, nearly irrelevant technicality. Ready for this staggering revelation?

Most people don’t grill in their bedrooms.

Shocking, I know. Almost didn’t believe it myself. But after polling friends and random strangers standing in the checkout line at Wal-Mart, it became clear that most folks reserved their grilling time for the kitchen or backyard. Which created a problem for my heroine. Other than gifting her with a severe case of sleep grilling—that much maligned second cousin to sleep walking—it made no sense to have a George Foreman grill under the bed. After much pouting and foot stomping on my part, I hung my head in shame and conceded the argument to my husband. I know. It was painful. I felt like I’d just let the entire female population down by giving in to the man. Please forgive me, ya’ll.

So what did I ultimately learn in all of this, besides people will look at you real odd when you try to convince them that grilling in the bedroom can be sexy and fun? Just one thing. In the case of a possible zombie apocalypse, it’s always a good idea to have a backup weapon.

Even if it is a wimpy ass Thighblaster.

Now it’s your turn. For a chance to win a copy of That Voodoo You Do, leave a comment with what your chosen weapon would be in a zombie ambush.

Something dead this way comes…

That Old Black Magic, Book 1

For ten long years Griffin Trudeau has managed to keep his paws off Jemma Finnegan, best friend and leading star of his kinkiest fantasies. As her appointed cat familiar, indulging those fantasies with the delectable witch is strictly forbidden. But when Jemma shows up at his door with seduction in mind, control goes right out the window.

Too late he realizes making love to Jemma is the trigger that launches a zombie apocalypse.

Jemma’s been dealt a double whammy: she’s just discovered she’s a witch. And Griff has been hiding whiskers and a tail. Oh, and if her life wasn’t crazy enough, a dead voodoo queen needs her blood to raise a legion of zombies.

There’s one plan that might work to increase Jemma’s powers so she can put an end to the looming holocaust. A sexy threesome with Griff and Logan Scott, a werewolf familiar with a history of rubbing Griff’s fur the wrong way. A cat and a wolf playing nice, much less sharing? It’ll take a miracle.

Warning: A witch, tiger and wolf doing naughty things. A dead voodoo queen doing evil things. And zombies doing zombie things. Get your shovels ready.

If I’ve forgotten anything, or you need something more from me, just let me know. Thanks!

“I don’t have any coffee in the house.”

Jemma cracked one eye open and gave Griff a bleary stare. “No condoms. No coffee. What kind of swinging bachelor are you?”

He leaned down and nipped the back of her neck. “The kind who has plans for you when I get back.”

She speared him with a suspicious look. “These plans better not include cleaning your bathroom. I’m not falling for that again, you sneaky bastard.”

Griff tried for an innocent look that fell way short of authentic. “What? I told you it was an emergency.”

“My cousins coming over to play poker was not an emergency.”

Chuckling, he pushed off the mattress. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in twenty. Make sure you’ve lost that T-shirt by then.”

A shiver of expectation raced through her. Who knew Griff could be so sexy and demanding? She indulged in the delicious view of his sculpted buns before they disappeared beneath the faded denim of his jeans. He shrugged into a dark gray T-shirt and traipsed from the room. Snuggling into the sheets with a blissful sigh, she closed her eyes.

Her own snore snapped her from a light doze several minutes later. Thank God Griff wasn’t around. Kind of difficult to maintain her sex-goddess vibe when she sounded like a damn foghorn.

Footsteps scrunched across the carpet and she groaned. “Oh shit, you are home.” Remembering that she hadn’t obeyed his earlier command, she wiggled her butt beneath the covers and snickered. “Guess what, I didn’t ditch your shirt. Does this mean you’re gonna spank me?”

Griff didn’t answer, but she knew he was still there. She could hear him breathing. Loudly. Either he was severely out of breath or brushing up on his obscene phone caller skills. A foul odor wafted to her nostrils, and she scrunched her nose. “Dude, that better not be the coffee because it smells like something fell in there and died.”

Rolling onto her side, she glanced toward the doorway. Her uncle Harold stood a couple of feet away, puddling dirty rainwater on the bedroom carpet.

Pretty damn freaky, since he’d been dead for the past sixteen months. She blinked. “Okay, this is officially going down as the weirdest dream ever.” Not to mention amazingly lucid. Even the rain that sluiced from Harold’s severely bad comb-over looked eerily realistic.

One mud-caked wingtip stomped forward with a wet squelch. Harold’s opaque eyes focused on her with malevolent intent, prompting her skin to prickle with the creepy-crawlies. If this was real, I’d probably be peeing myself right about now.

Deciding that it was way past time to wake her ass up, she pinched her arm—and yelped at the resulting sting. “Holy shit, I am awake.” Numb disbelief paralyzed her limbs. There could be no way in hell this was actually happening. Only it was. Dead Harold definitely wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

Her eyes widening, she stared at the corpse’s shuffling advance. A mix of fear and panic raced through her, competing with the irrational part of her brain that kept dredging up images of her uncle teaching her how to play his old Gibson guitar while they both belted out the words to Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay”. She’d sung the song in tribute at Harold’s memorial, certain he’d been watching from the afterlife with a huge grin on his face.

Only he wasn’t smiling now. If anything, his face held the scariest expression she’d ever seen. She gulped and struggled to fight off a renewed surge of terror. This was Harold. He would never hurt a fly, much less—

His pale, waxy features twisting with ugly menace, Harold lunged forward. Long, boney fingers swiped the air inches away from her head. “Graw.”

She’d seen enough zombie movies to know that loosely translated, graw meant Hmm, which of your tasty appendages should I snack on first? A pathetic excuse for a scream gurgling from her throat, she scrambled sideways, battling to escape her uncle’s windmilling arms and the imprisoning blanket. Finally free of the covers, she tumbled off the bed and ducked to a crouch near the closet. Crawling toward the corner of the mattress, she peeked past the dangling quilt. Yep, deceased relative still there and blocking the only means of exit.

Heartbeat roaring in her ears, she considered her options. Only one sounded good at the moment—getting the fuck out of there, with all her limbs still attached. Which meant she needed a weapon. Keeping low to the floor, she scanned her immediate area. On the far side of the dresser, a piece of exercise equipment caught her eye. A part of her couldn’t believe she was actually considering defending herself with a freakin’ ThighBlaster. An even bigger part wondered why the hell Griff owned a ThighBlaster. She’d have to give him major shit about that one.

Assuming she lived long enough. Of course, there wasn’t much chance of that happening if she didn’t leave her pathetic hidey hole and haul ass over to the dresser. Easier said than done when her stubborn toes were currently fused to the carpet.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Damn it, you can do this.” With Herculean effort, she pried her feet from the floor and scrambled toward the dresser. Another loud “Graw” rasped nearby—way too close—and she dove for the ThighBlaster, her flattened palms and bare knees plowing through the carpet. Her fingers wrapped around the ThighBlaster’s rubber handle at the exact moment a dark wingtip squished into view. The stench hit her full blast. Wet, moldy wool and the sick sweetness of formaldehyde.

Holding her breath, she jerked her gaze upward and locked stares with Harold. Any thought of trying to convince her uncle’s corpse that he didn’t want to make a snack out of her instantly died. The creature looming over her with murderous zeal in its eyes wouldn’t be swayed by her pleas. His hand swiped at her. She ducked, striking out with the ThighBlaster. It hit him square in the ankle, hard, and he wobbled. Seizing the opportunity, she struck again, swinging her makeshift weapon with a howl of determination. It crunched against his kneecap. Grunting, Harold clamped onto the ThighBlaster and jerked it upward. Jemma—still holding her end tight—slammed into him, her nose indenting his left breast pocket.

Oh God, dead person cooties. Shuddering, she scooted backward. Zombie Harold lashed out with the ThighBlaster, and she catapulted over the dresser’s edge to avoid getting bashed in the head. “If this is about the butt-ugly flower arrangement my parents sent to the funeral, I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

Harold made another swipe.

Sometimes there was just no reasoning with dead people.


You can purchase this book at







At the ripe age of seven, Jodi Redford penned her first epic, complete with stick figure illustrations. Sadly, her drawing skills haven’t improved much, but her love of fantasy worlds never went away. These days she writes about fairies, ghosts, and other supernatural creatures, only with considerably more heat. She has won numerous contests, including The Golden Pen and Launching a Star. When not writing or working the day job, she enjoys gardening and way too many reality television shows. Currently residing in Michigan with her husband and overgrown lapdog, she is a member of RWA national and Greater Detroit Romance Writers of America.She loves to hear from readers. You can email her at
and visit her online at

Other places you can find Jodi on the internet:

12 Responses to “EtS Welcomes Jodi Redford!”
  1. Nat says:

    “Sometimes there was just no reasoning with dead people.”

    I about choked reading that. Hilarious! I look forward to more stories. Are you still here? Go write! Now! I have needs, woman.

  2. Fedora says:

    ROFL, Jodi! I love it–thanks for sharing the reasoning behind the Thighmaster… Clearly in a zombie ambush, I’m toast since I don’t own one of those instruments of torture 😉 If this attack took place in my kitchen, I think I’d be in good shape–I can choose from an assortment of pots, pans, knives, and other sturdy implements. If I was attacked in the bedroom, my choices are quite a bit narrower… A couple framed photos, and a huge stack of books! Maybe I could overwhelm them with sheer quantity–the portion of my TBR occupying the bedroom *is* kind of large!

    • Jodi Redford says:

      I don’t know Fedora. Do you happen to have one of those Harry Potter books or perhaps a copy of War and Peace in your TBR pile? Either one should be heavy enough to take out a zombie.

  3. Yadira A. says:

    Hi Jodi!
    Love your books and I can’t wait to read That Voodoo You Do. My chosen weapon in a zombie ambush would be… a flame thrower! I got that from reading the Anita Blake series by L.K.H. Seems to be fairly effective and makes sens since alot of critters can’t take the heat like they might be able to with bullets or other weapons. Seems like most of the time you either have to cut up the bad guy into tiny pieces and then burn them or just plain torch them from the beginning in order to get them dead-dead.

    BTW – Loved, Loved, LOVED… the excerpt!

  4. Cathy M says:

    What a totally fun storyline, that excerpt still has me laughing, and who can resist a wolf, tiger and witch sandwich? If I was going for a weapon stashed in my closet, it would be that saucer thingie that is suppossed to give you great abs. Hah!! At least taking off a zombie’s head would make the purchase worth something!

    caity_mack at yahoo dot com

  5. Terra Pennington says:

    I love the excerpt to this book. Makes me laugh with Jemma smart mouth replies. I want this book so bad.


  6. Brandy Blake says:

    Hmmm what to pick, what to pick??? THe flame thrower is good but would run out of gas so maybe an axe but then you have to be close.


  7. Jodi Redford says:

    We have a winner!

    According to the spiffy number generator over at, commenter #6 is the lucky winner. So congrats, Brandy!

    Brandy, I’ll send you an email at the addy you supplied in the comments to get your preferred format for your ebook. 🙂

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