Archive for the ‘Excerpt’ Category

Maiden Tomb By Cynthia Sally Haggard ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 23, 2026 in Excerpt, Fantasy, giveaways, historical romance
Tags: , , ,
2

 

Maiden Tomb

By Cynthia Sally Haggard

 

(Twelve Cursed Maidens, #1)
Publication date: February 5th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Historical, Retelling, Romance

Follow twelve princesses down a dark tunnel into a grove of jeweled trees to a too-placid lake, where a prince will row you across to a gleaming castle to dance the night away. This historical fantasy—a retelling of the Twelve Dancing Princesses folktale—drifts backwards in time from the Early Middle Ages of Sicily to the Bronze Age of the Trojan War. It is perfect for fans of Circe and Spinning Silver.

Sixteen-year-old Justice wants to release her sisters from the jaws of Father’s imprisonment. But what can she do? The easiest way would be to find suitors for them.

However, that is not so easy, for Justice’s elder sisters are strange. What with All-Gifted’s madness, Protectress’s hair writhing with snakes, Death-Bringer’s grief (not to mention her strange name), Shining’s scandalous doings, Maiden’s tart tongue, Shadow’s crippling shyness, no sensible man would want her sisters as wives. Which leaves Justice, the seventh daughter, the one who possesses a quiet authority.

Maiden Tomb, Book One of the Twelve Cursed Maidens series, is a clean enemies-to-lovers romance.

The original fairytale—about twelve young ladies dancing all night—sounds so jolly doesn’t it? But I don’t think Twelve Dancing Princesses is about dancing at all.

I think it is about death.

Why do I think that? Well there appear to be some elements to the tale that go back, way back, hundreds, no, thousands of years, back into the Ancient World.

First of all, being rowed across a body of water sounds like a thread of Greek Mythology found its way into this tale. It is very reminiscent of Charon the boatman rowing the souls of the newly dead across the River Styx.

Then there are those jeweled trees. Where do they come from? Several scholars believe that element of the story comes from the Tale of Gilgamesh, which may have been originally composed around 1800 BCE. It tells the story of Gilgamesh, a King of Uruk a city-state in Sumeria, who is grieving for the death of his best friend. According to scholars, Gilgamesh ruled the Kingdom of Uruk in around 2700 BCE.

Then there are the princesses themselves. Have you ever wondered why their are twelve princesses? Again, the answer points towards the ancient kingdom of Sumeria, which existed in what is now present day Iraq, beginning in around 6,000 BCE. The Sumerians were renowned astronomers who used a base-12 numerical system, unlike the base-10 or decimal system we use today.

And so, there you have it. When you dig below the surface, a charming story from Europe has roots in the Middle East and seems to be thousands of years old!

And so, when I came to write Maiden Tomb, a piece of women’s fiction that explores the all-too-often captivity of women, I put back all those elements. We have the Gilgamesh epic, and elements of Greek Mythology, complete with snakes, ancient gods, and powerful goddesses. And far from being a jolly novel about young people dancing, as the title suggests, I made it a book about death.

I hope you find this coming-of-age novella as enjoyable to read as I found it fascinating to write.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

In the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of the outside world.

I escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep, I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.

We sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.

Father has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.

As the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs, bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.

Finally, I can take it no more.”Is it true what they say about the King’s daughters?”

The grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.

“Where’ve you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad.”

I am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father, who was sailing to the west of this land.

And so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain. Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea, to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.

And there, in a tavern, I met Father.

Now we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me, as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.

This is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information. He calls his strategy “divide and conquer” and it means that I have to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house. This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because for some reason they always want to pet me.

Meanwhile, Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon, I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk, cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or shepherd.

The only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when this issue arises.

“Father is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly.”

One sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.

But the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.

I turn my eyes down. “Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him in the stable yard.”

“He’s the new stable hand, is he?”

I nod.

“Much good he’ll be with a bellyache.”

I look up. “Do you have a remedy for that good sir?”

Father always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns sour, as it flatters the vanity.

The fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. “You’ll have to go to the kitchens for that, son.” He ambles off.

.

About Author Cynthia Sally Haggard:

Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and reared in Surrey, England. About 40 years ago, she surfaced in the United States, inhabiting the Mid-Atlantic region as she wound her way through four careers: violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer, and novelist.

Her first novel, Thwarted Queen, a saga set in 1400s England with a Game of Thrones vibe, won the 2021 Gold Medal IPPY Award for Audiobook. Her second novel, Farewell My Life, a dark historical about a hidden murderer, won the 2021 Independent Press Award for Women’s Fiction and was the 2019 Distinguished Favorite for the New York City Big Book Award.

Cynthia graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, Cambridge MA, in June 2015.

When she’s not annoying everyone by insisting her fictional characters are more real than they are, Cynthia likes to go for long walks, knit something glamorous, cook in her wonderful kitchen, and play the piano.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram

.

GIVEAWAY

.


Maiden Tomb Blitz

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Who’s Out There By Westley Smith ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: March 22, 2026 in Action/Adventure, Excerpt, giveaways, reviews
Tags: , ,
2

 

WHO'S OUT THERE by Westley Smith Banner

.

WHO’S OUT THERE
by Westley Smith
March 9 – April 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:

Inside Marburg State Park lies the remains of Camp Southwoods, where four counselors were slain twenty-six years ago. Their murderer, Douglas Lee Carver, has become a local boogieman with a chilling nursery rhyme attributed to his name. Locals believe the now-abandoned camp is haunted.

Ranger Colt Mitcham, leader of the Ranger Rescue Unit for Marburg State Park, ignores the ghost stories of Camp South Woods. He has real-world problems to worry about, like apprehending the person who’s been vandalizing the grounds, finding a missing local man who’s disappeared inside the park, and making sure that his team secures the park before the rapidly approaching blizzard – the worst storm in years – unleashes hell across the land.

But when a member of Colt’s team is found murdered, Colt begins to wonder if the tales about Camp Southwoods are true. Has Douglas Lee Carver returned? Or is there someone else out there? Someone with a personal axe to grind against Colt and his team, hoping to use the urban legends as a cover for their crimes and keep what happened at Camp Southwoods three decades ago from being exposed.

.

Praise for Who’s Out There:

“An abandoned summer camp with a dark history, a brutal winter storm, and a group of park rangers fighting for their lives are the core of Westley Smith’s WHO’S OUT THERE. With no help coming from the outside, Colt Mitcham has to figure out how to protect his crew as a relentless killer strikes again and again. This intense, blood-spattered page-turner had me in its grip from the beginning and kept me guessing until the end. Westley Smith is the real deal.” ~ Joshua Moehling, USA TODAY bestselling author of AND THERE HE KEPT HER and A LONG TIME GONE

“Taut. Relentless… a plot careening to the brink and you’re clinging on the edge all the way. Move over Voorhees. Step back Myers. Smith’s WHO’S OUT THERE sends you both packing. Don’t read this book until your feet are up, your blinds are drawn, and your glass is full-you’re in it till the end!” ~ Tj O’Connor, Award Winning Author of THE WHISPER LEGACY and THE DEAD DETECTIVE FILES

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Action Adventure

Published by: Manta Press, Ltd Publication Date: February 19, 2026 Number of Pages: 324 ISBN: 9781958370322 (ISBN10: 1958370320)

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

.

MY REVIEW

.

Ooh, this was a plot I could sink my teeth into. The synopsis read like a combination of Friday The 13th, A Nightmare On Elm Street and a modern mystery. I’d read other books by Westley Smith and loved them so I was rubbing my hands together excitedly.

Ranger Colt Mitcham, cool name, was centered in the real world. His focus was on what’s happening at Camp Southwoods, which used to operate in Marburg State Park. Someone had been vandalizing the old campground, a man had gone missing in the park and a life threatening blizzard was approaching fast. Colt gathered his team and raced to get things sorted out before the storm hit. Then a member of his team was murdered and he began to think maybe the myth was tied to some or all of the instances.

I read this at blistering speed. Only took a couple of short breaks. The plot was so good, my excitement had me laser focused and the character development had me connected. And the ending…. brace yourself. I should have. I was so off the mark, in the best way possible.

5 STARS

.

,

Enjoy this peek inside:

.

Chapter 1

God, it’s cold. Rumor Shoff checks his digital watch. 10:45 p.m. The Marburg State Park ranger won’t start his nightly rounds for another fifteen minutes. It will take him at least half an hour to forty-five minutes, to reach this end of the park. Rumor has plenty of time to accomplish his task. Perfect.

At the bed of his Ford F-150, he lifts a duffel bag with R. Shoff sewn into the canvas, and throws the strap over his shoulder. He pulls the trucker’s cap tighter to his balding head, the air rushes through its vented rear and prickles his dome. Chills walk up his skin. He zips his coat to his chin. Christ, it must be near zero with the windchill. The crisp, dry air burns his throat, and the scent of the oncoming snowstorm tickles his nose.

He’s alone in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Only the forest trees are watching. Silent observers who won’t tell a soul what he is up to—even after killing plenty of their kin. Good. But Rumor needs to move. If caught by the park ranger at a quarter to eleven, he’ll arrest Rumor and charge him with trespassing on state land after dark. That’s the least of Rumor’s concerns. What’s in his duffel bag, however, is. Heaving the strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, Rumor starts toward a large ranch-style gate serving as the entryway onto Serpentine Trail. The white moonlight casts the gate’s arch onto the gravel trail winding its way through the forest like a snake, past the Shoff Family Cemetery, and down to the shoreline of Lake Clarke, directly across from the abandoned summer camp. Rumor starts past the gate and into the forest, the moonlight has trouble penetrating the leafless trees; the branches so thick and interwoven they block all but a few streaks of white light cutting through the bare canopy. But Rumor doesn’t need a flashlight to guide him; he’s taken this trail many times to get to the cemetery—day and night—before the land was stolen from his father. Rumor’s face grows warm even in the bitter cold at the thought of the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) stealing his father’s land. The DCNR came to his father a year and a half ago with an offer to buy thirty-two acres of woodlands that made up the southwestern shore of Lake Clarke, excluding the small plot of land on which the Shoff Family Cemetery rests. No sir! Uncle Sam won’t pick up the tab to take care of that. They planned to add to Marburg State Park’s already sizable acreage. With his father’s refusal to sell, the DCNR made an eminent domain claim—the right of the government or its agencies to expropriate private property for public use. His father sued. But it was a losing battle from the start, and the courts ruled in favor of the DCNR, forcing his father to surrender the land with zero compensation. The DCNR can claim eminent domain or whatever fancy legal jargon the lawyers invented to sugarcoat the truth, but to Rumor, it was theft—plain and simple. The trail curves sharply to the right, and the Shoff Family Cemetery appears on the left. Behind an old wrought iron fence, fifteen tombstones jut from the forest floor like crooked white teeth. The wind blows with a haunting whistle. The bare branches sway back and forth, casting long shadows across the front of the tombstones that look like skeleton fingers caressing the grave markers. Rumor pauses by the gate. Even in the shadowy darkness, he spots his mother’s tombstone. Feels his heart ache. Fuck cancer. Rumor starts again. The gravel trail fades away and turns to dirt, worn-down over time by hikers making their way to the lakebed on the backside of the hill. He hasn’t been past the cemetery since August 1997 and doesn’t want to go down there now. Still, the DCNR needed to pay for what they had done. And by God, Rumor was going to collect in spades, even if that meant scaring up the memory of that dead girl he and his father discovered the morning of the camp massacre. Along the shoreline, where the cold water of Lake Clarke laps at the rocks and bankside like a soft kiss, Rumor pauses to catch his breath. The smell of mud and fishy water mixes with the crisp night air that smells both clean and repugnant to him. The full white moon is visible above, and its reflection ripples across the water. In the open, the cold wind cuts across the lake bowl. It stings Rumor’s face and makes his nose leak. He slides the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffs back a glob of snot. The last time he stood there was the morning of the massacre at Camp Southwoods, when he was six. Across the inlet of water, the steel cable tinks against the flagpole in the courtyard at Camp Southwoods. It’s a lonely, eerie sound that causes Rumor to shiver, as if a ghostly voice speaks from the past. The moonlight casts an eerie white glow across the rundown mess hall, tucked between two identical shotgun-style buildings—the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses. The dilapidated structures stand out against the clear northeastern sky—though it’s about to be overtaken by the dark snow clouds rolling in from the South. The ghost-town vibe of Camp Southwoods still resonates with residual energy from the grisly murders in the early morning hours of August 5, 1997. Rumor’s stomach churns as the vivid memory unpacks itself and his eyes drift to where they found the girl, washed up on the shore. She was lying on her side, facing away from them, her brown hair tangled with lake weeds, wet leaves, and interwoven sticks. On the back of her yellow T-shirt was a word in large red letters: COUNSELOR. Rumor thought she was sleeping. But when his father rolled her over to check on her, Rumor saw her pretty face was split from her hairline to her mouth, leaving a fleshy fissure where the axe had struck her. On either side of that gory canyon, two lifeless, milky-white eyes were locked on him in a death stare. An arrow was through the swell of her left breast. Deep lacerations scarred her forearms, and the first two fingers on her right hand were gone. She was from Camp Southwoods, just across the inlet—the torn and bloody yellow T-shirt with the camp’s name and logo affirmed this. Rumor remembers screaming in horror at the sight of the dead camp counselor. Then, his father was next to him, hurrying them back up the trail to call the police. Her name was Alice King, and how she ended up there raises the hackles on Rumor’s neck. He tugs his coat closer. But she wasn’t the only camp counselor found slain. Kurt MacReady, Virginia Steel, and Ted Charno also met their demise at the hands of fifteen-year-old Douglas Lee Carver, who, for reasons unknown, decided to hunt them down with a bow and arrow (taken from the camp’s archery range) before stealing their faces with a violent strike with an axe. Three of the victims, Rumor has learned in his research of the murders, were disposed of quickly. But Alice King had valiantly fought back. Sadly, she fell to Carver’s wrath by the lake before washing up a few feet from where Rumor now stood. Since the murders, a local legend arose of a curse on Lake Clarke and a curse on Marburg State Park itself. Locals claim to see shadow people on the trails or around the camp, hear whispering and laughing, and see lights emanating from the rundown cabins. The lore has grown exponentially over the years. So much so that locals have reimagined an old nursery rhyme, “Bye, Baby Bunting,” to scare the bejesus out of one another for nearly three decades. Rumor knew it well:

Little counselor running, Douggie Carver’s gone a-hunting Gonna catch that counselor, Gonna cleave that counselor, Little counselor done running.

But those campfire tales are just that…tales. You have work to do. Rumor checks his watch. 10:55 p.m. Get your ass moving. He continues to follow the trail south along the lake to an area known as Ice Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a favorite spot for ice fishermen to set up because the water freezes fast and hard in the winter. By a large oak tree leaning dangerously over the trail, Rumor drops the duffel bag and squats beside it. He unzips the bag and pulls out a gardening shovel. A battery-operated DeWalt drill with a three-inch wooden drill bit in its jaws. A 350 ml syringe. And a bottle of Tardon—an herbicide that kills woody plants. He drops to his knees at the oak’s base and begins clearing away a small patch of earth with the shovel. The January ground is frozen and tough to dig up. Perspiration dampens his back even in the cold. But he’s persistent, despite the challenging work, and continues removing the earth until the oak’s root system is bare. He rechecks his watch. 11:10 p.m. Need to hurry this up. With the drill, Rumor bores into the oak’s most prominent root. Once done, he opens the Tardon bottle, takes out the syringe, dips the wide plastic needle into the herbicide, and extracts a barrel full of blue liquid. What was that? Footsteps? Rumor searches the trail ahead but sees no one in the moonlight. It could be an animal. A deer? The legend of Camp Southwoods, and its murderous boogieman, has lit his imagination. Stop it. There ain’t any ghosts in these woods. I’m alone. Rumor shakes the silly thought away, plunges the 350ml of Tardon into the root, and empties the barrel. Drink it up. The Tardon kills the trees slowly over several weeks. He’s poisoned many trees around the park. Some are on trails like this one. Some in parking lots where a tree collapse could damage structures, costing the DCNR a lot of money in time and repairs. That’s just what Rumor wants. He refills the hole with dirt, replaces his equipment in the duffel bag, and stands. Gazing upon the oak leaning precariously over the trail, Rumor knows it’s just a matter of time before it topples. He smiles jovially. Poisoning the trees is only one of the many subterfuges Rumor has committed around the park: clogging the toilets in the guests’ facilities, wrecking the well pumps so the park didn’t have water for drinking and cleaning, dumping trashcans, spray painting obscenities on the public pavilions. He even lit a few fires that burnt some acres on the park’s western side in late September. Maybe I’ll drill holes in the canoes this summer. Or put wasps’ nests in the garbage cans. Or poison the drinking water. He has little concern about someone getting hurt from his shenanigans: people are collateral damage. Pride flows through his veins, pure like holy water, warming him. He’s giving it to the man for stealing his father’s land. But the warmth is quickly blown away as another gust of wind howls across the lake. Rumor shivers and looks at his watch again. 11:22 p.m. Time to get going. He returns to where the trail winds back into the woods, past the Shoff Cemetery, and eventually to the parking lot. The desolate tink, tink, tink of the cable snapping against the flagpole at the abandoned campground cuts across the inlet. Footsteps! On the trail again. Someone is there! Cold fear shoots through him and tightens his chest like a clenched fist. I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to do. He ducks behind a large white sycamore and checks his watch. 11:29 p.m. The park ranger may be down there, checking for trespassers or even looking for him after finding his pickup in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Or it might be a few local kids hiking to the abandoned campground to get high, drink, or make out. They might even tell each other ghost stories about Carver’s victims haunting the area. Rumor peers around the tree and scans the trail from which he just came. No one lingers about. The tightness in his chest eases. Still, he tries to tune out the wind and focus on the sounds of approaching footsteps. But if they were there and not a figment of his imagination, they’re gone now. He lets out a slow, grateful breath and feels the tension in his muscles relax. Rumor steps out from behind the tree. He’s about to turn away when he sees a human silhouette step off the trail and duck into the forest about twenty-five yards away. I’m seeing things, he thinks, as his balls shrivel into his pelvis and goose pimples rise from his feet to his scalp. He’s heard stories about hikers seeing shadow people on the trail, ducking in and around trees. Is that what he’s seeing now? A shadow person? No! There’s no one out there. It’s the wind causing the tree branches to swing and the shadows to move, nothing more. He swallows. His throat is dry like dust. But you heard footsteps—twice now—and saw the shadow. Someone or something is out here with you. Maybe one of Carver’s victims? An unseen frozen hand clasps upon his lungs in a powerful, vicelike grip. Fuck this! Rumor turns on his heels to bolt up the trail when a loose rock gives way, and his right foot slips out from underneath him. He loses his grip on the duffel bag, which slides from his shoulder into the dark somewhere, and falls hard on his right elbow. The impact with the unforgiving ground peels the flesh back, and the sting of cold air bites at the raw, bleeding wound. He stifles a scream. He can’t risk someone hearing. Through the discomfort, he pulls himself to his feet and darts up the trail toward the dark, concealing woods where he’ll be safe from…well, whatever it was that he saw duck off the trail. He doesn’t stop or look back until he’s far enough from the shoreline, hidden deep within the woods where no one—man or ghost—can see him. He bends at the waist to catch his breath, to allow his heart rate to slow. It beats in his ears like a sinister drum. He now understands what it must be like for people who say they’ve seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster… “A ghost,” Rumor whispers in the dark. Of course, Rumor will never admit ghosts are real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are nothing more than stories made up by fringe outliers looking for attention. What he saw tonight were moving shadows, brought on by the wind and an overactive imagination. Rumor feels that the only ghosts down there are memories. Then why were you running? He doesn’t entertain this thought and looks at his watch. 11:40 p.m. Christ! I need to— My duffel bag! It isn’t slung over his shoulder. You must’ve dropped it when you fell. His bloody elbow begins to thump with discomfort at his carelessness. How could you be so stupid! He can’t leave it behind. If found, the Rangers will easily link the tree poisoning and the vandalisms back to him because his damn name is stitched on the side. No. Leaving the duffel bag isn’t an option. Rumor gazes down the trail into the dark hollow and listens for footsteps again. But only the breeze blows through the trees, rustling what leaves remain on the branches. He’s positive that everything he’s experiencing—the footsteps, the shadowy figure—is a manifestation brought on by the camp’s violent history and his memories of that fateful day. His head was full of enough lore about Carver and Camp Southwoods to trick anyone’s brain into thinking someone was out there, maybe even following him. Steeling himself against his fears—real or imaginary—Rumor takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s heading back toward the lake to find the duffel bag. In his mind, he keeps repeating: They’re only stories. *** Excerpt from Who’s Out There by Westley Smith. Copyright 2026 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Westley Smith:

,

Westley Smith

Westley Smith is the author of the crime thrillers Some Kind of Truth (Wicked House Publishing) and In the Pale Light (Watertower Hill Publishing). In the Pale Light landed on IngramSpark’s #1 pre-order charts in the mystery, thriller, and hard-boiled detective category. He is also the author of the psychological thriller, They Came at Night (Watertower Hill Publishing). He has two self-published horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve. Writing since he was ten, his first short story, “Off to War,” was published nationally at sixteen. His short stories have recently appeared in On the Premise and Unveiling Nightmares. He was the runner-up contestant in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, and his short story “Winter Reflections” was chosen as a finalist for Crystal Lake Publishing’s Shallow Waters short story contest. He also had a short story, “The Security Guard,” in the horror anthology “Hospital of Haunts,” (Watertower Hill Publishing) which hit #1 on Amazon, and his true encounter with the urban legend of York, PAs, Toad Road and The Seven Gates of Hell, was featured in George Watertower and Other Childhood Terrors (Watertower Hill Publishing).

He lives in southern Pennsylvania with his wife and two dogs.

Catch Up With Westley Smith:

WestleySmithBooks.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @wssmith100 Instagram – @wsmithbooks Facebook – @westleysmith100

.

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win! Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

WHO’S OUT THERE? The Winner, That’s Who! 🎉💀
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Westley Smith. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

. WHO’S OUT THERE by Westley Smith | Gift Card

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Secrets Of The Midwife By Ann Ormsby ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 21, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, women's fiction
Tags: ,
1

 

Secrets of the Midwife

By Ann Ormsby

 

Published by: Acorn Publishing
Publication date: March 18th 2026
Genres: Women’s Fiction

Anabel Leigh has spent years pouring herself into her career, polishing her image, and protecting her fragile heart after too many losses. But everything changes when a stranger presses a baby into her arms in a crowded New York park and vanishes. The child’s golden hair and trusting eyes stir a deeply personal longing Anabel thought she’d buried forever.

What begins as a surreal moment unravels into a storm of headlines and police questions.

Savannah Maas knows the truth. She’s hiding on a farm in Georgia, living by a different code—one forged from secrets, desperation, and choices that blur the line between compassion and crime.

As the world closes in, each woman struggles to keep her dreams from crumbling. For one, receiving the baby is a miracle. For the other, the handoff is a devastating mistake.

Heart-stirring and suspenseful, Secrets of the Midwife is a story of hope, resilience, and the unexpected ways love finds us.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

I am sitting in the little park situated between the town clerk’s office where happy couples come rushing down the steps, laughing and kissing after tying the knot, and the family court where some of them will end up, when things go badly. As I eat my lunch, I chuckle to myself at the irony of these two tall, brick buildings facing each other like powerful gods who already know our fate, providing what we need when we need it.

The thick scent of the candied hazelnuts cooking in a nearby vendor cart wafts over me in the cool April breeze. I pull the collar of my trench coat up around my neck and tighten the knot in my silk scarf. Collecting the wrapper from my sandwich, I put it back in the brown paper bag as my eyes catch a stooped old woman pushing a double stroller with two girls in it.

The one closest to me is a baby with golden blonde hair. Maybe a little more than a year old. I can’t take my eyes off her. The other girl has thick brown hair and looks to be about four years old. They make their way down the path to me, and then, without warning, the older girl unbuckles herself, jumps out of the stroller, and runs into the crowd.

The woman yells at her to stop, but the girl keeps running, weaving between the people walking through the park. After unbuckling the smaller child, the woman picks her up and thrusts her into my lap.

“Hold her,” is all she says before she runs after the other girl, leaving the stroller behind.

I look down at the small face staring up at me. The child does not seem afraid, relaxed even. She explores my face as a growing tension rises in my chest. Groaning in frustration, I stand up, holding the baby in my arms, shifting her weight to my hip, and desperately search the crowd for the woman or the other little girl. They’re gone. My first inclination is to go after them, but after a few steps I stop. What am I doing? I’m holding a child who isn’t mine in the middle of a public New York City park. My armpits grow wet with sweat, and I loosen the scarf around my neck.

Wondering what to do, I go back to the bench and sit down. Without thinking, I smooth the girl’s wavy blonde hair, tucking a piece behind her tiny ear. Time passes and the woman does not return. Panicking, I’m afraid to leave the bench because I want the woman to know where to find me. Assuming she’s coming back. The baby rests her head on my shoulder, and her beautiful blue eyes study me. Without disturbing her, I raise my arm, pull up the sleeve of my coat, and look at my watch. It’s getting late. I have to go back to work.

Twenty minutes pass. Without hope, I stand up again and look for the woman. The lunchtime crowd is starting to grow thin, and I am beginning to feel desperate. After pulling my cell phone out of my bag, I call 911 and the operator says she will send a patrol car.

The minutes tick by slowly. The wait is agonizing. Finally, a squad car pulls up, and I watch as two officers get out, walk to the gate, and scour the park. A man and a woman. They look so young, fresh-faced with heavy equipment hanging off their belts. They see me, and I stand up with the girl who is starting to feel heavy in my arms.

When they reach me, the male officer asks, “Did you call 911?”

“Yes. I was just sitting here, and a woman wearing a scarf and a long skirt gave me this baby.” I stammer knowing how incredulous it sounds.

The officers stare at me, then at the baby.

Finally, the female officer takes a pad out of a box on her belt. “What’s your name?”

“Anabel Leigh.”

“Where do you work?”

I tip my chin in the direction of my building. “Right there.”

“No. What’s the name of your employer?” she asks with annoyance.

“Oh, sorry. C&W Communications.”

“Okay. So, what did the woman look like? Where did she go?” She continues to question me.

“Yes, I need to go back to work. Will you take her?” I try to peel the baby away from my shoulder.

.

 

About Author Ann Ormsby:

“Ormsby has a wonderful eye for character and detail, as she fleshes out a keenly observed portrayal of small-town life.” ~ Kirkus Review

“The Recovery Room” was a winner at the 2014 Paris Book Festival.

Ann Ormsby is a freelance writer with a master’s degree in journalism from New York University. Her writings on reproductive freedom and other public policy issues have appeared in The Newark Star-Ledger, The Huffington Post, njspotlight.com The Westfield Leader and The Alternative Press. Her short stories have appeared in The Greenwich Village Literary Review, Every Day Fiction and hackwriters.com.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Newsletter / X

GIVEAWAY!

.

GIVEAWAY

,


Secrets of the Midwife Blitz

,

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Diversion By Cindy Goyette ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: March 19, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, Mystery, reviews, suspense
Tags: , , ,
2

 

Diversion by Cindy Goyette Banner

.

DIVERSION
by Cindy Goyette
March 2 – 27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A Probation Case Files Mystery

 

Phoenix probation officer Casey Carson could use a change of scenery to clear her head and make some major life decisions. When the opportunity arises to take on a side job wrangling juvenile delinquents on a wilderness adventure for a diversion program, she’s skeptical. But she wants to support her cousin, who was hired as a counselor. The extra cash in her pocket sweetens the deal.

Unfortunately, one of Casey’s clients—an escaped murderer after one of her charges—threatens to upend her plans. Facing wildfire, flash floods and an angry mountain lion are nothing compared to the murderous intentions in store for one of the kids.

On a crash course with the killer and with her faithful pup Felony by her side, Casey desperately tries to lead the group to safety. She doesn’t realize that her two love interests, ex-husband Betz, and hunky ex-neighbor, Marcus, are frantically looking for the group. Casey must utilize every negotiating skill she possesses to not fail, or she’ll lose all she holds dear.

.

MY REVIEW

It was an easy choice to read Diversion by Cindy Goyette. I’d read her former book in the series, Early Termination, and I’d also read Diamond In The Ruff from her Wiggle Butt Manor Mystery, and gave both or them five stars. So I anticipated another fun book with great characters. Got it!

A wilderness setting is always something that draws me to a book. You’re cut off from help and anything can happen from injury, from wildlife and from nefarious humans. When Casey takes time away from her work to help her cousin, Hope, to take some troubled teens on a wilderness excursion she never thought it could go so wrong. I found the scenario felt genuine. Especially all the teen angst. They don’t all get along and some have short fuses, which leads too the loss of their communication devices. Cut off and with the whole trip falling apart, it seems even mother nature is against them.

Enter Betz, Casey’s ex-husband and Marcus, a possible love interest. They have to team up to find the group. I couldn’t wait for their scenes. I had a feeling they would be quite interesting.

So many differently personalities. So many obstacles. It sure kept the story moving fast for me. I couldn’t wait for the end but also didn’t want the end. Know what I mean? When I did finally read the end, I was so glad I’d read Diversion.

5 STARS

.

,

Praise for Diversion:

“A breakneck adrenaline rush of wilderness adventure, emotional angst, and high personal stakes. Whether you’re a fan of the Probation Case Files Mysteries or jumping in for the first time, Cindy Goyette’s DIVERSION is certain to entertain!” ~ Tori Eldridge, bestselling author of KAUA‘I STORM

“With nonstop action, continually mounting stakes, and a fearless heroine, Cindy Goyette’s DIVERSION doesn’t let go and will have you turning its pages well past bedtime–and not regretting it one bit in the morning.” ~ Audrey Lee, Edgar and Anthony-nominated author of The Mechanics of Memory and Never to Be Told

“Casey Carson is a hands-on probation officer with a lot on her hands in Cindy Goyette’s engrossing novel, DIVERSION: Two men’s affections, shepherding troubled teens on a wilderness hike gone wrong, and an escaped killer on the loose closing in. A lot of balls in the air that Goyette handles masterfully, all while torquing up the tension.” ~ Matt Coyle, author of the award-winning Rick Cahill crime series

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: February 24, 2026 Number of Pages: 320 Series: A Probation Case Files Mystery, Book 3 Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Mystery Series

,

Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub   Early Termination by Cindy Goyette Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub    

.

Enjoy this peek inside:

.

Prologue
The girl held her breath, hoping her pounding heart wouldn’t give her away. She’d squeezed herself under her parent’s four-poster bed, between totes of out-of-season clothes. It had been her favorite place to hide when she was little… but she was almost full grown now. A stupid choice. Wouldn’t it be the first place they looked? Fear wouldn’t let her chance a move. The roar in her head made it difficult to hear what was happening in the other room. Still, she listened. She knew one thing. Her parents were dead. She’d heard their pleas, their screams. Then gunshots. Silence after that. She fought back her tears. Swallowed hard. Held her breath. Now, the killer was rummaging through the house. Looking for something. Looking for her. Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall and then stopped at the bedroom doorway. She clamped her hand over her mouth. Tears dripped down her cheeks, gathering at the cleft of her chin before landing soundlessly on the carpeted floor. Scuffed black boots walked across the room and came to a stop at the foot of the bed. So close, she could reach out and touch them. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to face her fate as it unfolded. She was next. But a cell phone chimed, and the boots turned. The footsteps moved away and toward the door. She opened her eyes and risked a small breath. In her hand, she gripped the key her father had passed to her just before he’d told her to hide.

Chapter One

Six months later
I stuffed crackers in my mouth and washed them down with a Diet Coke before leaving my desk and heading for the probation department’s training room. It was early morning, and I felt like I had a killer hangover. Strange, because I’d had nothing to drink in the last few days. I’d thought about calling in sick, but I’d never done that before, and I didn’t want to ruin my perfect record. Even if no one else was keeping track. Plus, this training was mandatory. I’d put it off until the last class offering, and I needed to get it done. Most of the seats in the cramped room were already taken. I didn’t have a record of being on time, so I didn’t sweat it. “Casey,” my coworker Claire called from across the room. “I saved you a seat.” I dropped into the chair next to her, took another drink, and placed my Big Gulp on the table. “I can’t take another day of this,” I said, under my breath. “Sorry to hear that,” the trainer said, reaching around me and placing a binder in my lap. “Just for that, you get to go first.” I cringed. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were standing there.” “Obviously not.” The trainer walked over to the dry-erase board, picked up a marker, and opened the cap with a flourish. I didn’t know her well, but she was on the fast track to becoming a supervisor. I also didn’t know she hated me until now. “So, Casey, give us your greatest weakness.” Right now, it was my stomach. The leftover burrito I’d eaten for dinner last night must have been spoiled, but that wasn’t what she meant. I hated this question. The goal was to name something that you could turn into a strength. Nothing came to mind. Hands shot up around the room. Apparently, not the case for those around me. “Impatient,” someone yelled. “Opinionated!” “Sarcastic!” “Workaholic!” The trainer couldn’t write fast enough. “Okay, that’s plenty,” I said. I loved my job but clearly had to work on my reputation. The list was moving into a second column when my work cell vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. Betz, my ex-husband. Well, he was more than that, but I’d pumped the brakes on reconciling while I figured some things out. Still, taking his call was a good excuse to escape the room and the assassination of my character my peers were treating like a game show. “Gotta take this’” I got to my feet and hurried from the room. “It’s a detective.” “Evasive,” someone added to the list before I silenced them by closing the door. I answered as I walked down the hall. “What’s up?” “Sorry to interrupt your day,” Betz said. I could picture him rubbing the back of his neck. Didn’t matter what he was calling about, most times when we talked, he rubbed his neck, shook his head, and I’m pretty sure his blood pressure rose. And yet, he wanted us to get back together. If we reconciled, he’d probably stroke out at the young age of thirty-five from the stress I caused him. Still, he loved me. “No problem,” I said. “You’re saving me from a painful day of training. Please tell me you have something that can get me out of finishing the class.” “You supervise Martin Phillips?” “I do.” “He’s a suspect in a double murder that happened six months ago. Think it’s over drug money. We want to take him into custody, but we don’t want to spook him since he’s armed and dangerous. Think you can trick him into showing himself?” My adrenaline kicked in, stomach problems vanishing. A double murder was nothing to sneeze at. And if it had happened months ago, before he was on probation, there was nothing I could have done to stop it. Now we had to get my client off the street. “I can text him. Tell him I need to do a field visit, and I need him to be home.” Typically, we didn’t warn our clients we were coming. But sometimes, if we had enough failed attempts, we’d set something up. Anyway, Phillips was fairly new on supervision. He didn’t know the drill. But he knew we had to do regular home visits, and he was due. He’d probably fall for it. “That should work,” Betz said. “Gear up, and I’ll meet you at the employee entrance in ten.” I disconnected the call and took the stairs two at a time to my cubicle. I loved playing with cops. Although I never wanted to be one. Too much blood and guts for me. *** Excerpt from Diversion by Cindy Goyette. Copyright 2026 by Cindy Goyette. Reproduced with permission from Cindy Goyette. All rights reserved.

   

.
About Author Cindy Goyette:

.

Cindy Goyette

Cindy Goyette is a former probation officer who had a front-row seat to the criminal justice system. She kept her sanity by finding humor in most situations. A mix of these things helped her create The Probation Case Files Mystery Series. Book one, OBEY ALL LAWS, won a Public Safety Writer’s Association award, and it has been a finalist for Lefty and Silver Falchion Awards. Book two: EARLY TERMINATION released in 2025. She also authors The Wiggle Butt Manor Mystery series. DIAMOND IN THE RUFF is book one. After spending over twenty years in Arizona, Cindy lives in Washington state with her husband and two Cocker Spaniels.

Catch Up With Cindy Goyette:

ccgoyette.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @ccgoyettewriter Instagram – @cindy.goyette Threads – @cindy.goyette X – @cindy_ccgoyette Facebook – Cindy Goyette, Author

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win! Click here to view the Tour Schedule

   

No Mystery Here—Just A Great Prize!
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Cindy Goyette. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

. DIVERSION by Cindy Goyette | Gift Card

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Nerdy Girl Nell By Lindsey Gray ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 19, 2026 in Contemporary Romance, Excerpt, giveaways
Tags: ,
1

 

Nerdy Girl Nell

By Lindsey Gray

 

(Nerdy Girl Novels, #2)
Publication date: March 17th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Sports

Nell De Lacy loves small things like story time, a well-stocked bookshelf, and evenings with friends. Relearning how to date after grief was supposed to be the hardest thing.

Enter professional wrestler Chance Robicheaux. Towering, tender, and utterly relentless about keeping her safe. The two become friends first, spending nights learning each other’s quirks. Between hospital rooms and poker nights, the two find something electric and real.

Nell’s life suddenly fractures with a violent assault, a cache of stolen images, and a blackmailer who won’t be denied. As the threat tightens and the press draws near, Nell’s voice, literally and figuratively, fails her at the worst possible time.

With the De Lacy family company’s December board vote approaching, Nell faces a critical challenge that threatens to upend her life. The outcome of the vote carries the risk of awarding a coveted contract to the wrong people, forcing Nell to balance family loyalty, legal danger, and a secret that could change everything.

Nell and Chance’s is a story about rebuilding, of finding courage in therapy and friendship, and discovering there’s strength in asking for help. Nell’s fight becomes Chance’s fight, and soon they choose to fight evil together. Will justice arrive before the quiet she loves is gone forever?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo / iBooks

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

“This honey pot just got a whole lot sweeter.” Chance Robicheaux licked his lips and tossed in a few plastic chips. The cards in his hand were the best he’d held the entire night.
He peered around the table of friends as they partook in their newly minted Wednesday poker night. Rob Breyer, Chance’s closest friend and wrestling tag team partner, concentrated on his hand. Rob’s girlfriend, Emma MacLean, rolled her eyes at Chance’s comment, then winked at him when she glanced his way. The dealer and his new sidekick, Seamus De Lacy, took a sip of his drink while the rest of the players made their decisions.
Chance’s eyes landed on the last member of the table; he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from moaning. Emma’s roommate, Nell De Lacy, stared at him with a slight look of awe mixed with determination, which he found fucking irresistible. The woman had driven him mad since their first meeting over a bowl of potato salad to his crotch. No matter what the situation, one glimpse of Nell, her auburn hair in those cute as hell space buns and perfectly pouty lips, had him hard in three seconds flat.
“I fold.” Rob placed his cards on the table and slumped in his chair.
“I’ve got nothing.” Emma tossed in her cards, then slid her arm around Rob’s shoulders. “This isn’t our night.”
Chance lifted his eyes to Nell’s. “What about you, Nell?”
The corner of Nell’s lips that Chance spent hours fantasizing about curled upward. “I’ll see you.” She tossed in enough to match Chance’s bet. “And I’ll raise you.” She counted out the rest of her chips and placed them in the pot.
Chance could tell she was confident about the hand she possessed. She had her tells as much as anyone else did. The smirk she wielded always made him pull out of the game. Not tonight, though. She’d gone all in, but he’d go a bit more.
“All right.” He determined the required chips to call but decided to raise to find out what she had to offer.
“You can’t do that!” Her confidence turned to anger.
“I sure can. I’m willing to make a deal if you think your hand is still as worthy as it was a moment ago.” Chance’s heart thumped in his chest while he stared her down, praying she would give in.
“What kind of deal?” she asked.
Chance grabbed the pad of paper and pen beside him and wrote down what he wanted. He slid it to her.
She picked it up and read his chicken scratch. “This…” The words clogged her throat as heat moved up to color her face.
“You place that in the pot. I win; you deliver. You win; you can rip it up.”
Nell opened and closed her mouth, then pressed her plump lips in a firm line. She pushed the slip across the table. “I call. Show me what you’ve got.”
Chance peered into her brilliant emerald eyes as he laid each card down one by one. Her face paled. “Royal flush.”
“Damn,” she murmured, and she laid her cards down face up.
“Full House. Not bad, but not good enough tonight.” Chance licked his lips in anticipation of his winnings.
Emma glanced between the two. “What did he win?”
Nell placed her palms on the table, her cheeks tinged pink. “A kiss.”

.

About Author Lindsey Gray:

Lindsey Gray is a writer, an over-thinker, and a chronic list-maker, but her passion for writing stories you’ll love always tops the list. Her author journey began in 2010 with the publication of her first novel, and she has spent the last decade creating worlds for readers to play in. In addition to her own work, Gray utilizes her skills formatting novels for other authors and hosts the weekly show, Gray Matters, on TMV Cafe Internet Radio. She lives and writes fueled by iced tea, her handsome hubby, and the beautiful chaos of mothering her children.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / X / Instagram / Threads / TikTok / BlueSky / StoryGraph

.

GIVEAWAY

.

Nerdy Girl Nell Blitz

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Laughing Through The Storm By Jane Rogers ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 18, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, Memoir
Tags: ,
2

.

Welcome to my stop on the virtual book tour for Laughing Through The Storm organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.

Author Jane Rogers will be awarding a $10 Amazon or B&N Gift Card to a randomly drawn winner. Don’t forget to enter!

And you can click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

.

Laughing Through The Storm

By Jane Rogers

 

 

Genre: Memoir

Synopsis

Diagnosed with epilepsy at 13, Jane’s life took a wild turn full of seizures, specialists, and some seriously strange hospital adventures. But instead of letting it break her, she learned to laugh—at the chaos, the cringe, and even the curveballs. Laughing Through the Storm is a hilariously honest memoir about finding resilience, ridiculousness, and unexpected joy in the middle of life’s messiest moments.

.

Enjoy this peek Inside:

It was a frosty January morning in 1981 when I decided to make my dramatic debut in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. As the latest addition to the family line-up, I was a calm and easy-going baby, quietly lulling everyone into a false sense of security. Classic me— always setting up for a twist.

 

My dad worked for the Health of Animals, a branch of the Canadian federal government, as a veterinarian in Prince Edward Island. They were responsible for the control, prevention and eradication of certain animal diseases. As the district veterinarian for the entire province, he had responsibilities for the health and well-being of all livestock, from pigs and cows to chickens. His days were a mix of travelling to farms to test animals for serious diseases like tuberculosis and rabies; visiting auction houses to ensure only healthy animals were sold; attending meat-packing plants to collect samples; and making safety diagnoses to ensure that animals entering the food chain were safe for human consumption.

 

When I was two, my parents decided to move us to Riverview, New Brunswick, a town that became the stage for my happiest childhood memories. We lived on Hamilton Court, a little slice of suburban heaven with one particularly glorious feature: hills. Our backyard sloped gently, but our neighbours’ yards were even steeper, perfect for sledding. Every winter, kids from all over the neighbourhood would arrive armed with sleds, ready to turn those snowy slopes into the ultimate playground. We would shriek with laughter as we careened down the hill and tumbled into a snowbank. Gravity may have been our accomplice in the winter, but in the summer, it was the architect of our joy. My friends and I would roll down those same hills, giggling uncontrollably, dizzy from both the spinning and the laughter.

.

About Author Jane Rogers:

.

Jane Rogers is an accidental expert in epilepsy, diagnosed at 13 and living with it ever since. She’s spent over three decades navigating seizures, side effects, and hospital adventures with grit, sarcasm, and a solid sense of humor. Laughing Through the Storm is her first book—a tribute to resilience, ridiculous moments, and finding light in the darkest places.

She lives in Ottawa with her supportive husband, Pascal, and their two mischievous chihuahuas, Junior and Bailey.

Fun Fact: Jane once had a seizure during a comedy show— and still insists the comedian owes her one.

Instagram / Facebook

~~~~~

GIVEAWAY

 

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Round Up The Unusual Suspects By Elizabeth Crowens ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 18, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, Humor, Mystery
Tags: ,
0

 

Round Up the Unusual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens Banner

.

ROUND UP THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS
by Elizabeth Crowens
March 9 – April 17, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery

  Against the backdrop of WWII, no one expected to find a murdered stagehand on a Warner Brothers sound stage. With so much at stake, Jack L. Warner hires Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, the two young private eyes who recently resolved his high-profile Maltese Falcon/Blackbird Killer Case. Social justice crusader Leon Lewis suspects local Nazi sympathizers are responsible. Lewis assigns a German stuntman, a veteran of the decadent subculture of Weimar Berlin nightlife and one of his newest operatives, to join forces with the private detectives. According to Warner, the show must go on, but everything from bomb scares to the Japanese internment, to unruly parrots, forbidden love, and family crises conspires against solving the crime. “As Time Goes By,” actors Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and the rest of the Casablanca ensemble join the professional private eyes to round up the unusual suspects and capture the killer. Love 1940s classic movies? Treat yourself to the award-winning Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles (Book 1) and Bye, Bye Blackbird (Book 2) of Elizabeth Crowens’ Babs Norman’s Golden Age of Hollywood mystery series by Level Best Books.

;
Round Up the Unusual Suspects Trailer:

.

 

.
Book Details:

Genre: Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery with humor

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: January 20, 2026 Number of Pages: 328 ISBN: 979-8-89820-189-0 (paperback) Series: A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery, Book 3 || Amazon, Goodreads

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

.

Mystery Series

.

Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles by Elizabeth Crowens Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub   Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub        

.

Enjoy this peek inside Round Up the Unusual Suspects:

.

Chapter One
“Nobody’s allowed to die on one of my sets!” hollered Jack L. Warner. “Who’s the jackass who wants to halt my production?” Flanked by his personal assistant Bill Schaefer, Jack dragged Hal B. Wallis, his head of production, over to the sound stage filming Yankee Doodle Dandy, starring James Cagney. He swung open the door as soon as the red warning light turned off and stormed inside. Michael Curtiz, the film’s director, dumped his megaphone and threw down the gauntlet. The parade band on stage accompanied his rage with a drumroll and cymbals. Warner nabbed Curtiz’s discarded megaphone. “Rally the troops—all of them! I have a studio-wide announcement.” Curtiz, turning red, clamped his hands over his ears. The actors and background extras, dressed in woolen military uniforms, stopped marching and sweltered under the hot lights. The live orchestra fell silent. “Sir, maybe we should check out the dead body first,” Schaefer suggested with hesitation. At Warner’s command, an assistant rolled back a piece of movable scenery to reveal a prone figure, an unknown young man wearing bloodied street clothes, but with a swastika carved on his neck. “Are you sure he’s dead?” Warner asked. “He looks like he’s just sleeping on the job.” Backing up a few steps, Wallis broke out in a cold sweat. “Has any-one been a-ble to i-den-ti-fy him?” The assistant director strained to keep self-control but trembled. “Every-one denies knowing him. Our director, however, insisted we ignore the victim and stay on schedule.” Wallis, turning green, gulped down his rising bile but regained his voice. “That’s unconscionable. We should secure the set. Everyone will have to swear to secrecy, and under no circumstances is the press to know about it.” Schaefer clutched his stomach, and his knees became unsteady. He grabbed a chair to brace himself. Jack L. strutted the sound stage like Napoleon planning a counterattack and examined the casualty of war with a sense of unnerving calm. He wrinkled his nose and instructed his assistant, “Better call the Burbank PD. Won’t take long under these broiling lights for him to stink to high heaven.” The actors, who’d remained in the stance of military attention, were about to wilt. Offstage, on both sides, waited singers and female tap dancers dressed in skimpy satin costumes as a tribute to Uncle Sam. “At ease!” Warner shouted, accompanied by a round of relieved sighs. “You think you can direct my film picture?” Curtiz shouted in his choppy version of Hungarian-bastardized English. “I can and I will,” Warner barked. “Don’t forget, I sign your paychecks! Furthermore, I still can’t understand why you summoned half the musicians’ union to play instruments off-camera when you could’ve used a recording. Money wasted!” Curtiz glared, with fire in his eyes. “It’s because they’re featured on camera at the beginning and the end of the scene!” He cursed in his native Hungarian tongue and stormed off the set. Jimmy Cagney, the star of the show, followed. “You can find me in my dressing room.” Undaunted by his director and lead actor’s histrionics, Warner demanded to see the production notes. After a quick glance, he scraped his fingernails through his receding hairline. “Too much…can’t picture it. Summon your editors and set up a projector—somewhere—anywhere, on the damned wall if we must. I’d need to see the dailies and bring me that hot-headed Hungarian Goulash Gulag Meister and his la-di-da lead actor.” Wallis broke the point of his pencil by slamming it down on his notepad. “All these delays…I don’t want to hear a word from you about going over budget.” “I’m the one who makes the final decisions. Respect your commanding officer!” Warner admonished his confused subordinate. Wallis gave him a weak salutation, but only out of respect. “Aye! Aye, sir!” Warner gave one last look at the body. “Go ahead, call the police,” he said to Schaefer. “And hire those two private detectives.” Wallis scratched his head with a look as if a screwball comedian had thrown a cream pie in his face. “Who?” he asked. Warner clenched his jaw. “Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, those young kids who solved the Blackbird Killer Case and saved the cast of The Maltese Falcon. That was a close call for everyone.” * * * The phone rang at B. Norman Investigations. Guy picked up and said Jack Warner’s assistant was on the line. Babs motioned for him to hand over the receiver. “The Big Boss desires your company,” Schaefer told her. “If he doesn’t mind throwing in two mouth-watering prime-rib dinners at the Smoke House for us,” Babs said, who hadn’t eaten all day, “we’ll consider that his consultation fee.” The two PI partners headed downstairs to their building’s garage, where they now had their own assigned adjacent parking spaces instead of playing roulette for empty spots on the street. Babs put her key into the ignition of her ailing Crosley—the Clown Car, the brunt of Guy’s constant jokes, with a paint job that resembled a motley patchwork. The moment she put her foot on the gas pedal, it made a bone-shaking screech of metal against metal and emitted exhaust that would’ve choked a triceratops. “We’re taking mine,” Guy said after he stopped wheezing. He rolled up his windows to keep out the foul scent. “Can’t believe you never had the sense to replace that fossil since it never ran well.” They pulled out of the garage, and he donned his sunglasses. “Now, you’re stuck with it since our government stopped new automobile production and only people in vital professions, such as doctors and clergymen, qualify to purchase remaining inventories.” “Private eyes don’t have priority?” He shook his head. “Not in your sweet life. Those assembly lines are being converted to produce tanks, aircraft, and weapons for the military. Mark my words. Next thing you know, they’ll demand that we ration fuel and rubber for our tires like they do in England. Read the papers if you don’t believe me.” Guy flashed his Warner Brothers pass to the gate security guard. Babs panicked as she searched inside her purse. “I must’ve left mine in my car.” “Try flirting,” Guy whispered. She snorted in defiance. “I will not!” Much to her surprise, he sweet-talked his way into saying, “She’s with me,” and pulled into an empty guest parking slot. When they arrived at the Yankee Doodle sound stage, the crime scene investigation was well underway. The Burbank PD sectioned off the area where the deceased lay, but nearby, Curtiz insisted on conducting rehearsals even if it was too noisy to roll sound. He ordered the gaffer and his electrical crew to prep the lights for the next set of shots, but they went berserk, thinking a light was shorting out every time the crime scene photographer’s flashbulb went off. Curtiz insisted his captive cast and crew finish what they started. He’d work around the police, even if it meant yelling and screaming, at the risk of losing his voice, to make sure they kept quiet. “Isn’t Jimmy Cagney your star?” Guy looked around for the missing actor. Curtiz made an unintelligible grunt and spat into his handkerchief. “We shall work around his crybaby tantrums.” He launched a new battle with Wallis. “You complain that clocks ticking means money. Then why does Warner have to be such a stingy fat cat?” Wallis bit his lip to keep from laughing at the director’s deliberate jabs at the English language. “Our detectives-for-hire are here.” He pointed out Babs and Guy. “Jack wants you to perform the entire number, Yankee Doodle Dandy, from start to finish.” The director stood his ground. “That’s not how we shoot it. We fall behind schedule. Then Jack gets more and more angry.” Warner paced the floor, bellyaching to himself and to any of the cops who would listen. “What if Cagney had been the intended victim? Not that I’m glad this man is an unknown Joe Palooka, but you get where I’m coming from.” The moment Babs saw the corpse, her stomach lurched. Guy took his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth. “Did you find any ID?” “Found a driver’s license in his wallet,” said one cop. “He’s got a German-sounding name: Gerhard Sauer.” Warner, holding a script, muscled in on their conversation. “I want to see this scene played out from start to finish.” Since Cagney left the set, Guy volunteered to stand in and improvise his choreography, but the studio head ignored his suggestion. “If that fussy thespian wants to act like a child, I’ll just have to take over and go through the motions.” Babs took her notepad out of her pocketbook. “Did anyone hear any strange noises?” She looked around for reactions but got none. “Did you consider that someone killed Sauer elsewhere and, for whatever reason, dumped his body backstage?” Babs blew her anger out of her nose. No one seemed to listen. Wallis gave the PIs an overview to get them up to speed. “The film, Yankee Doodle Dandy, is about the life of lyricist and composer George M. Cohan. He performed with his family, and they called themselves The Four Cohans. Playing his father, we’ve got the famous actor who played the shot-up Captain Jacoby from The Maltese Falcon, Walter Huston.” “Give My Regards to Broadway is also one of Cohan’s famous songs,” Guy mentioned. “We’ve included that one, along with Over There. All patriotic numbers that helped us endure WWI. Just think, we have a song for every star and a star for every stripe.” Wallis stopped and scratched his chin. “You know…I rather like that line. Must insist on using that quote for our trailer. However, what you’ll see on screen is a show within a show, as if our cinematographer was shooting a documentary. At the beginning and the end of the scene, the camera will pan, showing an establishing shot of everyone inside the theater. That’s where our live orchestra comes in. “The Cohans perform in a stage production of a show titled George Washington, Jr. The song-and-dance medley scene we had been shooting before everything went haywire centers on Grand Old Flag. Once edited, it will look like we shot it from start to finish, but since Warner told me you used to be actors, you probably know that most of the time we shoot scenes out of order. We’ll stop within sections to film close-ups and from different angles. Everyone’s curious to see if there are clues about the killer in the footage we’ve shot so far.” Babs asked Wallis if he’d drop her a line when the footage was available for viewing. Jack Warner, however, seemed to have his own agenda. He took over as director and insisted on doing a dry run. “Up with the curtain! Places, please. Stand by, and on with the show of the century. It’s the most original thing to hit Broadway. You know why? Cagney…or Cohan, to be more accurate, is the whole darned U.S. of A. squeezed into one pair of pants.” Wallis asked the PIs to follow him and take seats with the extras in the audience. “How many actors does the scene start off with?” Babs asked. “Not including the live orchestra and the packed seats filled with the audience, I guess there are about thirty-five, but more join in later.” Lighter on his feet than expected, Warner skipped across the stage and justified substituting for Cagney, who refused to leave his dressing room. “Believe it or not, I’ve had experience as an entertainer. When my brothers and I started our family business, I used to sing in the aisles in between screenings.” Wallis drew a deep breath and released it. “There he goes again. The boss loves telling everyone the story of his debut in show business. Often, I wonder whether Jack secretly always wanted to be a performer instead of running a studio.” He explained the upcoming scene while everyone blocked the action. “Jimmy sings Grand Old Flag. Twenty young Boy Scouts stride in from the top of the stairs. Betsy Ross sews the flag, upstage center. Eight more adults, who look like members of a military band, join them in song and advance from upstage right. After that, we cut away to five or six members of a fife and drum corps.” The PIs made every effort to follow Wallis while Warner danced on stage with the hired actors. “Upstage left, a variety of singers march forward, representing the common man and the working class—policemen, bakers, bankers, a nurse, miners, railroad workers—showing their solidarity. Everyone turns toward the flag and breaks into My Country, ’Tis of Thee in front of people manning an anti-aircraft gun.” Guy, who had been counting on his fingers, lost track. “How many would that add?” “Probably another thirty. Central Casting must’ve broken out bottles of champagne after receiving our requisitions. Then the stage curtains close, and the spotlight falls on Cagney, downstage right. In come the tap- dancing dames, many bearing American flags. This is where we rival MGM’s schmaltzy musicals with their elaborate costumes and choreography. Enter Uncle Sam, played by Walter Huston, and the Statue of Liberty. Then Jimmy wows everyone with his signature dance steps. More female flag bearers emerge from behind the rear curtain. Our stage crew has rigged the floor with conveyor belts, giving the illusion that the actors are marching toward the audience while they’re actually staying in place.” “Otherwise, they’d march right off the stage,” said Babs. “Correct, but we wouldn’t want them to do that,” Wallis explained. “As the cinematographer pulls back and widens the focal length of his lens, background curtains continue to open until we see a painted backdrop of the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. I’m no expert in visual effects, but it gives the audience the feeling there must be well over a hundred people proceeding down the boulevard. Pretty spectacular, don’t you think?” The assistant director leapt onstage and reminded Warner that the soldier actors were still suffering under the scorching lights and waiting for their next order. “Sir, we’re not rolling camera. We should dismiss them.” “Tell them it’s a wrap until further notice. I won’t approve an exorbitant dry-cleaning bill for everyone schvitzing in their costumes.” With military precision, the assistants rounded up the various groups of performers and shuttled them toward wardrobe. Curtiz and James Wong Howe, his cinematographer, remained to discuss how they’d execute the rest of that scene. Warner scribbled a note and handed it to his assistant. “Bill, tell these two to drop everything. I’m calling a meeting to order and want them present.” Schaefer reviewed his memo pad. “Sir, you scheduled one with them already.” Then he checked his watch. “They should be there…right now.” Jack pointed to Babs and Guy. “Then you’re coming with me and away from the crime scene.” In a rush, he sprinted ahead. Babs shouted loudly enough for him to hear her as he gained distance. “We’ll need to sign a contract to make our assignment official!” “Pick up the pace, you slowpokes, and I’ll cut you a check after we get there.” *** Excerpt from Round Up the Unusual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright 2026 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

 

 

.

About Author Elizabeth Crowens:

.

Elizabeth Crowensr

Elizabeth Crowens is bi-coastal between New York and Los Angeles, where she has worn many hats in the entertainment industry. Awards include Lefty nominee for Best Humorous Mystery, Agatha nominee in multiple categories, MWA-NY Chapter Leo B. Burstein Scholarship, NYFA grant, Eric Hoffer Award, Glimmer Train, Killer Nashville Claymore finalist, Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Top Picks, two Grand prize and six First prize Chanticleer Awards. Crowens writes Golden Age of Hollywood mystery with humor and alternate history in her Time Traveler Professor series. She also has a popular Caption Contest on Facebook.

Catch Up With Elizabeth Crowens:

www.ElizabethCrowens.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @ecrowens Instagram – @crowens_author X – @ECrowens Facebook – @thereel.elizabeth.crowens BlueSky – @elizabethcrowens.bsky.social

 

.

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win! Click here to view the Tour Schedule  

 

Lights, Camera, Murder! Bookshop.org Giveaway
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Elizabeth Crowens. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

.

Round Up the Unusual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens | Gift Card Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Peek Inside And Giveaway ~ The Sheik And The Slave By Nicola Italia

Posted: March 13, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, historical romance
Tags: ,
2

 

The Sheik and the Slave

By Nicola Italia

 

(The Sheik and the Slave, #1)
Publication date: March 13th 2026
Genres: Adult, Historical Romance

He owned her body… but could he ever claim her heart?

In the merciless splendor of the Arabian desert, Sheik Mohammed rules as an absolute master. His command is law. His power unquestioned. Women adore him, enemies fear him—and nothing he desires has ever been denied him. But when a golden-haired English beauty is dragged before him in chains, defiant despite her fate, something long buried in his warrior’s heart awakens. For her, he pays a king’s ransom… and claims her for his harem. Yet the proud, fiery Katharine refuses to surrender—not her spirit, not her will… and certainly not her heart.

Lady Katharine Fairfax was born to privilege, not bondage. The cherished daughter of English nobility, she has known only safety, luxury, and freedom. But when she dares to reject the vile advances of a powerful Baron, his vengeance is swift and cruel. Torn from her homeland and sold into the sultry, dangerous world of an Arabian palace, she becomes a prisoner of a man whose touch both terrifies and awakens her.

In a palace of silken veils, whispered secrets, and forbidden longing, passion ignites between captor and captive. Katharine burns with hatred for the man who owns her… yet trembles beneath the heat of his dark gaze. Mohammed has conquered kingdoms—but Katharine’s love may prove the one prize he cannot command. And as treachery coils around them and enemies close in, they must risk everything for a love that could destroy them both… or set them free.

Sweeping. Sensual. Unforgettable.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

The candle lights flickered low and the music began. It was a beautiful piece by George Frederick Handel, a Trio Sonata in B Minor. Katharine listened to the music and closed her eyes. The violin, flute, and continuo were in perfect sync with each other as the music moved and flowed through the room. She stood with James, sipping a glass of champagne, while she watched her guests mingle. A hundred people filled the room, and dozens more stood or danced in clusters and groups around the food tables. Champagne was in abundance. She had lost count how many people she had greeted and smiled at. She suddenly felt lightheaded as the champagne drizzled into her veins. The trio sonata continued playing, and its beauty was mesmerizing.

When she opened her eyes and looked across the room, she glimpsed him across the room and knew she had drunk too much. He had walked behind a group of people standing at the far end of the room. Kat almost dropped her flute of champagne.

“Darling, what is it?” James whispered as he felt her lean into him.

“The heat. It’s the heat,” she answered. “I need some fresh air.”

“Of course. I’ll accompany you,” he said.

“No, you should stay. I’ll only be a few minutes,” she replied. She moved her dress hem aside as she moved gracefully through the room.

Kat placed her champagne glass on a table and walked outside the ballroom and into the night. A few couples were outside talking and they greeted her. Her brother Charles and his wife, Sarah, smiled at her, and Charles kissed her in greeting.

She smiled to them and then turned away. She was going mad! She brushed a hand across her forehead and flushed cheeks.

Katharine looked out over the gardens that she knew so well. Earlier that day, she had stood next to James, thinking of the stallion and wanting to give him a proud name. She had always loved Greek mythology so she had thought of Ares, the god of war. But just then, she had seen him. Either that or her imagination was going wild.

She saw at first the figure behind the large group of people at the far end of the ballroom. He was dressed in a deep blue coat and waistcoat with snug knee-length breeches, low-heeled shoes and silk stockings. His hair was unpowdered but clubbed with a black ribbon, and he appeared to be clean-shaven. He was well-dressed, and the cut of the coat showed off his muscled back and the width of his shoulders.

The breeches did well to expose his muscled legs, and his dark shoes had no buckles on them.

But as much as tried to fit into this world, he did not. He was like a wild tiger in a small cage. He belonged in a hot world of sand and sandalwood incense, not in a ballroom filled with dandies and champagne.

He belonged in a world of sandstorms and harems, where the world smelled of incense and jasmine.

Kat shook her head. This was madness. This was what happened to women who had no clean grasp on reality. She wandered into a farthest part of the gardens, where the willow trees had been planted long ago. The birch and ash trees grew there as well.

Katharine was particularly fond of elm trees. The willow tree branches dipped low, almost to the ground, and she stepped inside one. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were shaking. She closed her eyes and remembered his goatee as his mouth touched hers. She remembered his hands on her, inside of her, and taking her that night after the party.

The air was cold, and her breath foamed out as she exhaled. The willow tree branches encircled her and protected her as she sighed. She must let it go. She must forget him. This can only drive me mad; she told herself for the thousandth time.

She touched the diamonds at her throat and tried to calm herself. Silly, she said to herself. She breathed out and turned to go back to the party.

But then, her quick intake of breath and the pounding of her heart inside her chest happened instantaneously. She shook her head and closed her eyes.

“You aren’t real,” she breathed out in disbelief, her breath foaming in the cold air.

“Oh, I’m real enough,” he mocked her.

His clothes were European as she had seen in the ballroom and his hair was pulled back without a wig. But his golden body belied the fact that he was not European and never would be. He would never fit in and would never want to. He had come here for one reason.

“I don’t understand. How are you here?” Katharine asked him, as her fantasy and nightmare collided together. She pressed a hand to her exposed chest as her heart raced.

“The horse, your Arabian, was my Arabian. I bred and sold him to your father,” Mohammed explained.

“Did you know when you sold it to him that it was for me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. His dark eyes met her blue ones.

Mohammed watched her intake of breath, which caused her breasts to swell over her neckline.

He had watched her that night, not able to take his eyes from her. He had many dealings with Europeans because of the Arabian horses he bred. The horses were renowned for their beautiful bone structure and stamina, but he had never accompanied the horses once they were sold. He had always dealt with the foreigners, accepted their money and had his men transport the horses. This time was different, however. This time everything was different.

Her father had written to Mohammed, inquiring upon the price of an Arabian stallion. Edward wrote in detail about his spirited daughter, explaining that the horse must be the same, intelligent and spirited. Mohammed had accompanied the horse to England to bring back what was his by Arab law.

He had watched her stand near the English dandies at the ball and smile into their faces. He had watched a young blonde dandy rest his hand on Katharine’s waist and clenched his own fist in anger. She had used her body well to trap men into wanting what they couldn’t have. Poor Majeed had found out the hard way. His own brother was enchanted by the little falcon! Majeed should have known better.

And now, after coming across the sea, he was here to claim her again. There would be no negotiations and no bargains; she would be his.

Unaware of his thoughts, Katharine shook her head, confused. Her diamond earrings glistened in the dark.

“Why are you here?”

Mohammed stepped toward her.

“You know exactly why I’m here. I’m here to take back what’s mine,” he told her.

He closed the small gap between them and jerked her into his arms.

“No,” was all she managed to say before his mouth took hers. He was clean-shaven and well-groomed, which only made him more dangerous. She knew what was underneath the fancy clothes.

.

About Author Nicola Italia:

Nicola is a Los Angeles native. Early in elementary school, Nicola had a great fondness for reading and began to write creatively. She graduated from university with a degree in communications and has held a variety of positions in journalism, education, government and non profit.

Nicola has traveled extensively throughout Europe, China, Central America and Egypt and loves all things historical.

She has nineteen historical romance and mystery novels on Amazon.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / X / Instagram

.

Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

.

The Sheik and the Slave Blitz

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Vamps And Vendettas By AK Nevermore ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 12, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, Paranormal or fantasy, Romance
Tags: ,
17

 

 

.

🦇📚 Magic happens
and sparks fly in the small town of Havers-By-the-Sea when a sharp-tongued
vampire crosses paths with a broody gargoyle. 🦇📚

.

 

.

Vamps and Vendettas

Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 3

by AK Nevermore

Genre: Spicy Small Town Paranormal Romance

.

Karma sucks.

Ophelia Diamondé never asked to be summoned to Havers-by-the-Sea, but when the
node makes her an offer she can’t refuse, she officially becomes stuck
representing the crappy little town. Having to clean up their messy legal
issues isn’t what she wants to be doing, but anything’s better than being
returned to the vampire court’s clutches—or at least she thought so before she
met the opposing counsel.

Gideon Sperry isn’t known for his patience or his giving nature, but he is one
hell of a lawyer. Unfortunately, all that goes out the window when Ophelia
shows up, and the lawsuit between Havers and Fayet becomes personal.

But the facts aren’t adding up. When it becomes clear that karma’s had a hand
in bringing them together, they need to find a way to build a case against
who’s really at fault for the turbine debacle. If they can’t, it’s not just the
town itself that’s in danger, but every resident’s very lifeblood.

Magic happens and sparks fly in the
small town of Havers-By-the-Sea when a sharp-tongued vampire crosses paths with
a broody gargoyle. VAMPS AND VENDETTAS, a spicy slow burn paranormal romance
novel in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series by AK Nevermore.

 

🦇📚 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐒 📚🦇
✦ Sassy Vampire FMC
✦ Overprotective Gargoyle MMC
✦ He Falls First
✦ Hidden Powers
✦ Loads of Snarky Banter
✦ Touch-Her-and-Die
✦ Forced Allies
✦ Dark Secret
✦ Second Chance Romance
✦ Slow Burn
✦ Small Town

💋 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 = 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️
Explicit Scenes ~ Very Hot

  

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

.

.
.
.
.

.

Prologue

.

Greenthorn Indoctrination Center, Vampire Tribal Lands

 

Ophelia sat on a hard plastic chair, clenching a mangled pamphlet
between her sweaty palms. The silence in the stark, cream and beige waiting
room was beyond oppressive. She’d been there since six that morning, and the hour hand on the clock
above the frosted glass door had made almost a full circuit.

She riffled her hair. The wait was fucking ridiculous. What the hell
was going on back there? All her forms had been completed, every legal
requirement satisfied. She’d even taken the intro course to their bullshit religious instruction
and been blessed by one of their preoti. This part should’ve gone faster, especially after her more-than-generous donation to the cause.

Fucking bloodsuckers.

God, she just wanted to burst through that stupid door and get this
over with. Damn it. No. Breathe. She struggled to bite back her temper. Be contrite, Phe. Try to channel fucking worthiness. She snorted. Like that was hard. She was a hell of a lot farther up
the food chain than the rest of the losers that’d shown up to volunteer.

Throughout the day, seats filled with indigents and the dying had
slowly emptied to the right and left of her until only herself and two other
people were in the room.

One of them was laid out on a hospital gurney. Bags of saline and lord
knew what else hung from an IV stand beside him. The other, a woman and
presumably the infirm man’s caregiver, slowly flicked through her tablet. By the way she was
chewing her lower lip and shifting in her seat, whatever she was reading was
juicy.

Ophelia scowled, hooking the long, jagged bangs of her pixie cut behind
an ear. What the woman should be doing was reading up on how to properly care
for the soon-to-be-corpse’s colostomy. Even across the room, the stench of shit was eye-watering.

What a cunty little campfire scout, all prepared for the wait. Ophelia
flicked her nails and picked at the black gel tips, begrudgingly admitting that
she’d been too confident she’d be one of the first volunteers called and hadn’t thought about how to pass the time. Normys looking to join the vampiric tribes and subscribe to their fucked-up religion were usually either
vagrants, on death’s door, or some special kind of desperate.

Ophelia was a very healthy twenty-nine, a rising star in the litigation
world, and fell squarely into the last category.

She was also positive that her soon-to-be-husband would completely lose
his shit if he knew she was here, and every second that ticked past increased
the probability of him figuring out where she was. Ophelia wiped her sweaty
palms against her thighs, all too clearly imagining him bursting through the
door, full-on gargoyle.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. These assholes needed to hurry the fuck up.

The bullshit work conference she’d invented wasn’t going to hold up to close scrutiny, but it was the best she could do on short notice. The approval for her to join the tribes had come through
almost immediately, and she needed that goddamned virus.

She slowly exhaled and flipped open the mangled pamphlet for the
umpteenth time, smoothing it over her bespoke, tailored slacks, glad her phone
had died after the first few hours, nixing any temptation to call Deo and come
clean about what she was doing.

Fuck around and find out never went over well with him, but that—and his abs—were one of the many reasons she was head over heels for the guy. No
one else had ever cared enough to call her on her shit. She chewed a nail,
knowing exactly what he would say about all this, but screw him. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a supe and she wasn’t. This needed to happen. She could feel it in her bones. It was the
next step.

She couldn’t lose him, couldn’t think about him with someone else after the fact, and her mortality
guaranteed that was gonna happen.

Yeah, over her undead body.

Her gaze dropped to the pamphlet. Rereading it was stupid. At this
point, she could recite it verbatim.

“Vampirism is a sacred gift.”

Ophelia didn’t quite snort, but damn, that line got her every time. Bit of a stretch
there. Though, she had to admit, the tribes had a killer marketing team. She
did snort at that, running a hand over her face. God, she’d been here too long, but Vampiric Syndrome wasn’t a gift, sacred or otherwise. It was caused by a virus carried by
gravers, a rare species of centipede from the eastern continent that fed on
dead bodies.

Gotta love nature, right? Gross, but nothing special. Well, unless they
chowed down on someone that hadn’t quite passed into the hereafter. That was unfortunate, and probably
unpleasant if said undead were a supe, but if one had the questionable honor of
being born a normy like her?

Hello, vampire.

Ophelia put a hand to her churning stomach. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to ingesting one of the fucking things, but if the Victorians could down tapeworms to drop a pound or seventeen, how
bad could this be? Granted, tapeworms didn’t have twelve rows of razor-sharp teeth, but…

Fucking A. Who was she trying to kid? It was gonna be horrible.

God, stop being such a pussy. To be with Deo forever, she’d chase the fucking thing with a shot of broken glass if that’s what it took.

Ophelia blew out her cheeks and slumped, her tailbone throbbing from
the hard plastic. It was a serious bummer she’d been inoculated for Vampiric Syndrome as a kid. Before the Purge, all
you had to do was bang someone already infected to contract VS.

Which was what had kicked off the Purge, the development of the
vaccine, was the reason all corpses were now cremated, and a whole host of
other shit.

Including the tribes’ need for volunteers to maintain their population.

A shadow moved behind the frosted glass. Ophelia sat up as a brunette
vamp with a severe bun and a nurse’s uniform straight out of the 1940s pushed through with a clipboard. A
name tag at her breast read “Crake,” and the tatuaj around her eyes radiated to her temples like a spider’s web. The markings looked like a tattoo but weren’t. It was how the virus presented itself and was the basis for their
fucked-up caste system.

“Ms. Diamondé?

It was about goddamn time. “Here,” Ophelia said, raising a finger before she stood. She wiped her palms on
her slacks and grabbed her purse.

Nurse Crake tongued her cheek, her unnaturally red lips pressed
together. She looked Ophelia up and down before checking off something on her
clipboard and gesturing for her to follow.

The hallway beyond was as stark as the waiting room had been. White
walls, sanitary molding, doors with stainless steel kickplates. All of those
had bars dropped across them, moans and thumps coming from within. One of the
long fluorescent bulbs flickered above.

“Birthdate?” the nurse asked, her dark eyes on the clipboard.

Something hit one of the doors as they passed, and Ophelia adjusted her
purse higher onto her shoulder. “Uh, November third, 2015.”

“And you’re here because…?” The nurse flicked through a bunch of papers, and Ophelia caught a flash
of her signature at the bottom of one of the many consent forms she’d signed.

She wet her lips. “Vampirism speaks to me,” she bullshitted, though it wasn’t totally a lie. The part where it extended one’s existence indefinitely was absolutely calling her name. The rest of
it could fuck off, but if she had to eat a bug then drink blood to make that
happen, so be it.

Nurse Crake glanced at her askance like she knew Ophelia was full of
shit. Well, at least she wasn’t stupid. She stopped at a door and pushed it open, gesturing for
Ophelia to go in.

The room beyond looked like every other doctor’s office she’d ever been in. Padded, papered table, crappy cream and blue wallpaper, a wheeled, stainless steel table, and a little laminate counter area with a
tiny sink and canisters of swabs and cotton balls.

“Remove your clothes and put them and the rest of your belongings in
here,” Nurse Crake said, handing over a clear plastic drawstring bag with
Ophelia’s name scrawled on it. “There’s a gown on the table, ties in the back. The doctor will be with you
shortly.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Ophelia took a deep breath before
beginning to undress. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her slacks and wriggled
out of them. Deo. Think about Deo. A visual of the mountainous, gruff blond man flashed across her mind’s eye. The way his stubble glinted on his square jaw, his intense
turquoise eyes…

“It doesn’t matter how much time we have together, Phe. We’ll make the most of what we have, and I’ll love you until the end…”

But it did matter. She flicked a hand across her cheek. The thought of
growing old while he stayed eternally young—there wasn’t a fucking chance she was going to subject him to mashing up her food and changing her diapers. And he would, damn him. No. This would take all of
that off the table. It was the only way they could be together without her
fucking mortality hanging over them like a shroud.

She tied the gown and sat on the table, paper crinkling beneath her.
Her pulse raced. He was going to be so angry with her, but he’d get over it…right? He always did. And then they could be together forever. With her credentials, whatever tribe she was assigned to would give her a dispensation
to work outside the tribal lands.

The mandatory tithe her position at the firm would provide all but
guaranteed that. She’d done the research. Save for two she couldn’t track down, every volunteer since the Purge with a high-paying career had returned to their normy lives. Tithing was how the tribes were funded, and
her salary was three times what the majority of them made.

Then why are you sweating so much?

Fuck. She raked a hand through her hair. Did it matter? Introspection
was pointless and not her jam to begin with. For better or worse, this was
happening.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it was pushed
open. A thin, dark-haired vamp in a lab coat came into the room with another,
younger male and Nurse Crake behind them. She carried a stainless steel tray. A
crimson velvet cloth covered whatever was on it. She set it by the padded
table, then busied herself by the counter.

The dark-haired vamp flipped through her chart, pursing his lips, and
pushed up his glasses. The tatuaj beneath them were the same webbed design as
Nurse Crake’s and the other vampire’s. Guess there was a tribe of medics.

“Ms. Diamondé,” the dark-haired vamp said. “I’m Doctor Wong, and this is my intern, Louis. He’ll be observing today, unless you have any objection?”

“Nope.” As long as they made her into a vampire, Ophelia didn’t care if they did it on stage and sold tickets.

“Wonderful.” He smiled, the tips of his pointed incisors gleaming. “I apologize for the wait, but in cases such as yours, we like to give the applicants time to fully consider their commitment to our cause.”

Seriously? That’d been some kind of test? Ophelia bit back a snarky retort, the paper
drape crinkling beneath her. “Of course.” She smiled back, hoping it looked more genuine than it was. “Completely understandable. However, I am fully committed.”

The doctor nodded, and Nurse Crake took Ophelia’s arm, swabbing it to install a port for an IV. Ophelia winced at the pinch. The woman might not be particularly pleasant, but she was efficient.

“Well, then everything appears to be in order,” the doctor said, flipping through pages as the nurse sent a burst of frigid saline through the IV. Louis scanned the chart over the doctor’s shoulder, reading along with him and taking notes. “I see you’ve completed the first course of religious instruction as well. Highly
commendable. Are we ready to proceed?” he asked Crake. At her nod, his eyes flicked to Ophelia.

She swallowed roughly, her mouth dry. “Please.”

Doctor Wong and Nurse Crake exchanged a glance.

“Then lie back to be secured,” the doctor said, reaching for a box of blue gloves on the counter. “The process doesn’t take very long, and as soon as we’ve finished here, you’ll be transported to the applicable tribe’s sect for recovery. That usually takes two to three days, and your
reintroduction will be evaluated based on how well you adapt to reanimation.”

Ophelia nodded, fighting a sudden burst of anxiety. The wedding was in
a week, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she was missing it. You can do this, Phe.

She lay back, and Nurse Crake moved to her side, pulling thick leather
straps from the sides of the table. She buckled them around Ophelia’s torso and forehead, then pulled out others for her arms and wrists.

“For your safety.” Crake smiled, her grin much more predatory than the good doctor’s and about as legitimate as Ophelia’s had been. The nurse filled a hypodermic, then plinked it.

“Ah, what is your preferred orifice?” the doctor asked.

Ophelia started, her gaze fixed on the needle. “What is that?”

“A lethal injection,” he murmured, pushing up his glasses and still scanning her chart. “Where would you prefer the vessel to make entry? It’s not listed here.”

“I-I thought I had to eat it?” Ophelia stammered.

“Any hole will do,” the nurse murmured with a smirk, setting the needle aside to transition
the end of the table flat and secure Ophelia’s legs. A slot opened beneath her rear and Crake yanked up the drape
leaving Ophelia’s bare ass to dangle.

Her nether regions clenched. She hadn’t— “Mouth. Mouth is fine.”

The doctor grunted and reverently folded back the crimson cloth. He
murmured something and made a solemn gesture before lifting a low jar that’d been nestled on a cushion.

Ophelia’s breath sped at the writhing contents, reconsidering all of her life
choices. No. She could do this for Deo. For them, for their future.

The doctor shook the jar, sending the churning mass to the bottom
before setting it back on the cushion and opening the lid. Decay laced the air.
He picked up a pair of long, silver tweezers and plucked out a flailing insect.
Its fanged maw gaped as it struggled, twisting and curling up on itself.

“Injection please.”

Nurse Crake jammed the needle into the IV’s port, and a horrible, searing burn sped up Ophelia’s arm. She whimpered at the rush of heat cresting over her, her heart
stuttering. Its fluttering beat a mantra: For Deo, for Deo…for Deo…

The doctor held the irate centipede above her. “Waiting for pupil dilation…and open.”

Her lips refused to cooperate.

The doctor frowned and gripped her jaw—

The centipede fell from his grasp and hit Ophelia’s face with a cold, chitinous slap. She recoiled as it flipped, its tiny legs scrabbling to grip her skin. Its length conformed to the contour of
her cheek and then skittered sinuously to her nostril. Her arms jerked against
her restraints, her head unable to thrash, and a terrible lethargy stealing
over her. Heart slowing, her vision grayed, fingers twitching, mind screaming: get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!

It wriggled into her nasal cavity, clawing into her sinuses, and a
garbled moan slipped from her lips. Blinding agony seared across her vision,
and she screamed, sharp teeth feasting inside her skull. Her eyes watered. No,
it was too hot for tears, the scent of copper thick, cloying the back of her
throat. Her pores wept, her skin coated with a slick, sticky film, and the air
redolent with the scent of blood.

Nurse Crake licked her lips.

An unnatural numbness bloomed from the bridge of Ophelia’s nose, radiating from her eye sockets, and the rest of her body
seized. Foam flecked her lips, her eyes rolling back into her head. A bright,
white light shone down for a moment and was ripped away, along with any sense
of peace she’d ever felt. Nothing was left but searing, burning, unrelenting pain.

Emotion dissolved beneath it, thoughts a murky haze, her body
unresponsive. She was hollow, her mind a void. Empty.

“Very good. It’s taking well. Note the patient has entered rigor. Her sudden pallor
coinciding with the sheen of blood-fever and the emergence of the tatuaj around
her eyes, there and there…” the doctor said, pointing with his pen, his voice distant and tinny. A
godawful cramp went through her body, and a horrific, spattering stench filled
the air. “Bowels voided…” He frowned. “Someone didn’t fast as instructed.”

The urge to laugh burbled up Ophelia’s throat, spittle foaming from her mouth. Agony morphed into a bizarre
euphoria, her limbs leaden and the feeling of an immense weight crushing down
on her. Her heart, still.

Dead.

A wrenching shudder wracked her body as her heart spasmed, once, twice,
then sluggishly began to beat again. She strained against the straps pinning
her to the table, her chest heaving with the effort.

“Very good,” the doctor murmured.

The room came back into focus, sounds sharper than they should be. The
flow of ink from the doctor’s pen as he wrote. Loose strands of Crake’s hair rubbing against one another. The slow scrape of Louis’s blink.

“What the fuck?” Ophelia gasped, her tongue thick and her eyes darting, colors far more
vivid than they had been. Bright, everything was too damned bright.

“Welcome back, Ms. Diamondé. Disorientation is a normal side effect of transitioning,” the doctor said absently, busy making notes. “Rest assured, any increased sensitivities you may be experiencing will
lessen over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours as the virus continues the
reanimation process.” He stabbed the pen against the clipboard, finished with whatever he was
writing, and set it aside with a wide smile. “Now, let’s see where we’ll be sending you, shall we?”

Crake wheeled over a tray. The doctor snugged his gloves before taking
a pair of hemostats from the nurse and dipping a wad of gauze into a yellow
solution. He dragged it across Ophelia’s brow, then discarded it almost immediately for another, the tiny pad
thick with gore.

Ophelia winced at the rough drag of it across her skin. Jesus Chri—

Agony flared through her skull, and she cried out. The doctor hummed
above her and swapped out the gauze again. “You need to put a call in to Vesper,” he murmured.

“Vesper?” the nurse spat out behind him, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Mmm” he hummed again, swabbing. “The tatuaj are gifted as the Great One wills, and whom are we to judge
which tribe she’s been deemed worthy of?”

“But—” Crake pushed forward, her eyes narrowing above pinched lips. “I’ll alert the court.” She scowled and left the room. Louis raced after her, his face white.

“What—what’s happening?” Ophelia lisped, her tongue fumbling against sharp incisors. A terrible
thirst had overcome her, making it hard to think. She licked her parched lips,
the acrid taste of her own sweat roiling her stomach. Vesper? She couldn’t remember a tribe called Vesper.

“Your transition may have very well just signed the death warrants of
everyone who witnessed it,” the doctor said, snapping off his gloves. “Prince Kremlyn suffers no rivals for his concubine’s attentions.”

What? Ophelia’s mind raced. No. She couldn’t be a—Deo. The wedding. She’d left her engagement ring by the sink. That last fight they’d had. He’d think she abandoned him, that she’d run. “No, no. I-I’m not a concubine, I’m an attorney—”

“You are whatever the tatuaj has decreed,” the doctor said firmly, moving to the door. “Someone will be in to take you to seclusion. Whatever call to vampirism
you felt, I very much hope it keeps you warm at the citadel. You won’t be leaving it.”

The door shut behind him with an ominous click, and Ophelia’s breath stuttered. The citadel? No, that was impossible. What had she
done, what had she done? Oh, God—

Agony bloomed through her skull at the word, and she whimpered, tears
tracking from the corners of her eyes. The awful reality of her actions crashed
down around her, and an insatiable thirst gnawed at her hollowed insides.

The names of the women she couldn’t track down—the two who had disappeared—flitted through her mind, along with a very bad feeling that she’d be joining them.

.

.

**Don’t miss the other books in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series!**

.

.

Weres and Witchery

Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 1

A sassy witch with curves for days stirs up passion with
an irresistible alpha shifter.

Get it on Amazon

.

Wards and Warlocks

Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 2

A sassy warlock with oodles of style has sparks fly with
an angsty shifter.

Get it on Amazon

.

AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases
coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a
certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not
reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.

Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to
become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time.

She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen
and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a
chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare
occasion, sleeps.

 

Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Bluesky * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

.

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

.


Enter the Vamps and Vendettas Giveaway Here!

.

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Abducted By J.S. Ash ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 12, 2026 in Excerpt, giveaways, Science Fiction, YA
Tags: , ,
2

 

Abducted

By J.S. Ash

 

(The Beast’s Burden Chronicles, #1)
Publication date: February 22nd 2026
Genres: New Adult, Science Fiction, Young Adult

Trapped aboard a living spacecraft hidden above her hometown, a teenage outcast must wage a one-girl war against ruthless alien mercenaries to save her best friend before the ship jumps into deep space.

A SHIP FULL OF ALIENS TOOK HER BEST FRIEND. THEY SHOULD’VE LEFT HER ON EARTH.

Abigail Ashby was raised to be a weapon by a dad convinced the world was on the brink of collapse. Then, inexplicably, he forced her into early retirement—aka high school.

These days, Abigail’s only battle is defending Harris, her outcast best friend who swears his parents were abducted by aliens. She’s secretly sure he’s delusional—right up until his bedroom explodes in amethyst light.

They wake up aboard the Beast’s Burden, an interstellar warship lurking above their town. Its leader, a sadistic warlord, seizes Harris as his prize, while Abigail slips away in the chaos—overlooked, underestimated.

Until she kills an alien to survive.

Now, hunted through the ship’s living corridors, Abigail must decide: retreat into the shadows, or unleash the lethal training she buried to wage a one-girl war and save everything she’s ever known… Because Harris isn’t just a hostage. He’s the trigger for humanity’s extinction.

Goodreads / Amazon

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

“Wait—I’m sorry. Abigail, I didn’t mean that. Please don’t go.”

Abigail froze in her tracks, but it had nothing to do with Harris’s plea. An unearthly shriek had erupted, ricocheting endlessly around the room, and all the warmth had instantly drained from her body.

“What is that?” she asked, ice surging through her veins.

Harris looked like he had seen a ghost. “I have no idea, but it’s coming from—”

With a deafening crack, four dark spheres shot out from underneath the bed and slammed into the corners of the room. Abigail watched, petrified, as the spheres oozed apart, spreading to cover the walls in a thick layer of disgusting sludge.

“You’re seeing this, right?” she said, voice trembling.

Harris nodded slowly, and Miss Biscuits started howling.

The ghastly sound reached a new ear-piercing level as the sludge began crackling with unstable amethyst purple energy.

“We need to get out of here!” Abigail shouted. She dashed for the window, but the light glittering across its surface flared violently in response, and she recoiled, backing away slowly.

The shriek was becoming unbearable. Abigail could hardly hear herself think, let alone process what was happening.

“This way!” shouted Harris as he lunged for the bedroom door, but the pulsing glow surrounding the handle suddenly sparked, jumping eagerly to his outstretched hand.

Amethyst purple light rippled through Harris’s entire body, shining beneath his skin. Abigail watched in horror as an unnatural smile slowly twisted across his face.

“Harris?” she said cautiously.

Harris’s head swiveled toward Abigail and his morbid grin twisted into fear. The amethyst purple light erupted out of his skin, contorting him backwards into a jagged arch. His body was suddenly blasted onto the ceiling, held there for a moment by an invisible force before dropping sharply to the ground, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust from the hardwood.

“Harris!” Abigail screamed, rushing to his motionless body. This was a nightmare. Everywhere she looked the amethyst purple light was encroaching—over the ceiling, across the walls, and covering the floor, inching right for them. Abigail scrambled to grab Harris under his arms and used every ounce of her strength to drag him onto the bed, only just avoiding the energy as it engulfed the remainder of the room’s surfaces.

“Harris, wake up!” she shouted as she checked for a pulse.

“Abby!?” came a muffled cry.

She strained to see Taylor pounding outside the window, an uncharacteristically horrified expression on his face through the amethyst-colored glare. He took a step back and then charged, but the barrier flared the moment his shoulder made contact, and he was repelled away in a shower of shattered glass.

Abigail’s eyes darted around the room, her fear mounting as the shrieking hit yet another plateau. Blood pounded in her ears. “Harris, wake up. Please wake up!” she pleaded, her voice barely audible over the howling of Miss Biscuits and everything else.

The sludgy spheres had re-formed in the corners of the ceiling and they were pulsing erratically. They seemed to be the source of whatever was happening—what was happening?!—perhaps they could be shut down somehow… But how? Abigail grabbed Harris’s hand, hopelessly begging him to wake up, and her fingers made contact with a ripple of raised skin—the scar.

Abigail’s gaze snapped to the samurai sword hanging on the wall. Scrambling to her feet, she ripped it from its mount and unsheathed it. The gleaming blade appeared as sharp as it had all those years ago.

“Abby! Abby! What are you doing?!” Taylor’s voice cut through the chaos. He was back on his feet just outside the shattered window. He was holding up a small metallic object that Abigail couldn’t quite make out through the amethyst refraction. She didn’t have time for this. The high-pitched shriek was growing more and more deafening, the amethyst-colored light burning ever more severely. Instinctively, she knew it was now or never. She had to disrupt whatever was happening.

She frantically scanned the spheres, her entire body shaking. Though she had no clue this would work, the one in the corner by the door seemed like her best shot. “You can do this,” she said to herself, but she didn’t remotely believe it. Gathering all her strength, she sprinted towards the edge of the bed, leaping into the air with the hilt held firmly in her grasp. With a loud clang, the sword sliced through the sphere, miraculously penetrating the energy barrier and lodging in the wall.

As gravity pulled Abigail toward the floor, time seemed to slow, and she watched the damaged sphere start to skitter in and out of reality, spewing sparks in all directions like it was about to explode. The blinding amethyst light and eardrum-bursting shriek reached their crescendos just before Abigail hit the ground.

She felt a surge of pure agony, and then, there was nothing.

.

About Author J.S. Ash:

J.S. Ash has spent over a decade working in media at one of the largest tech companies in the world, though his true love remains storytelling. His creative DNA was forged in the 90s—a blend of blockbuster action cinema, console gaming, and the high-stakes melodrama of the era’s teen soaps. He lives with his wife and daughter, who serve as the primary inspiration for the resilient, protective heroines at the heart of his stories.

Website / Goodreads

.

Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

.

Abducted Blitz

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Older Entries
Newer Entries