(Masonry, Magic, and Love, #1)
Publication date: March 4th 2022
Genres: Paranormal, Romance
No Steam! No Spice! Gargoyles are immovable statues of stone. Lifeless, the librarian thought, until one of them takes flight to save her from an untimely demise.
A kindhearted but lonely librarian. Nancy is drowning under the weight of an abusive boyfriend, failing grades, and looming unemployment. While at work, she confides her deepest, darkest secrets to the gargoyle perched near her desk. But she’s unprepared when the strange stone statue comes to life.
A gentle gargoyle born under a curse. Treyton can’t believe it. In the past century that he’s been guarding the beloved Victorian library he calls home, the lonesome man never had anyone notice him until now. And he’s enchanted by the beautiful woman yearning for true love under his watchful gaze. But the witch who gave him life wants him back. And she’s willing to kill anyone who stands in her way.
As his vile witch plots against them, will Nancy and Treyton be torn apart forever, or can they overcome the evil threatening their love — and their lives?
They were bloodcurdling, gut-wrenching howls filled with nothing but pain. It was unlike anything Nancy had ever heard before.
Gasping for breath, Nancy’s eyes flew open. She pitched forward and peered around her with bleary eyes, trying to figure out which of her neighbors must have been shrieking … but instead of her ceiling and her warm blankets, she found herself lying in a heap on the side of a dirt road.
Above her, gray clouds swirled through the frigid night. Snowflakes drifted down and clung to her lashes and her hair.
Why was she outside? The last thing she remembered was diving into bed after Diana left.
Panic filled her as she rolled clumsily onto her arms and knees, finding her legs twisted and tangled in endless yards of fabric. It was only when she managed to drag herself to her feet by gripping a lantern-lit street post that she realized she was no longer in her Wonder Woman pajamas. She was dressed in a long-sleeved frock that swirled around her ankles. She grabbed at the thick fabric, tugging and pulling at it, until she realized that she was wearing some sort of antiquated dress and a petticoat.
“I must be dreaming,” Nancy whimpered, but she was hardly able to hear herself over the screams still echoing around her.
Her chest heaving, Nancy stumbled down the dirt road. She had to find someone, anyone, to tell her where she was and what was going on. This place was unrecognizable to her. There were only ten houses on this small road, as well as a building Nancy assumed was some sort of general store. There was also something almost familiar about the budding town, though Nancy could not put her finger on what it was—especially when she realized that flames licked up toward the sky from most of the buildings. Heat emanated from them, battling with the wintry chill of the air.
Nancy froze. She could only stare as the townspeople ran around wildly and begged for help. Suddenly, men on horses charged through the village, some swinging swords and guns while others aimed flaming arrows at people and homes.
“The outsiders are attacking!” someone screamed before getting cut down before Nancy’s very eyes.
“No … no!” shrieked Nancy. “Wake up, please! I don’t want to be here anymore!”
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About Author Gayle Katz:
Daring Women. Dangerous Worlds.
Gayle is a fan of zombies, sci-fi fantasy romance, and psychological horror—though not necessarily in that order. She writes the kinds of books she wants to read but often can’t find. Hoping to scare you, make you swoon, and root for her characters, her love of kick-butt heroines and sassy snark shines through in her work.
Born and raised outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Gayle lives with her husband and they are currently working on their own happily ever after.
MIT OUT SOUND by Rick Lenz Category: Adult Fiction (18 +), 378 pages Genre: Hollywood Tie-in Literary Fiction Publisher: Chromodroid Press Release date: February 2025 Content Rating: PG-13 +M. My book is rated PG-13 + M for swear words, one non-explicit sex scene, adultery and references to abuse and one on page murder.
Book Description:
”It’s time to make a mess,” said Emily.
Would-be movie producer Emily Bennett didn’t believe the legend of a lost movie, starring James Dean and John Wayne. But when she meets two uncannily talented celebrity impersonators-Jimmy Riley and Tom “Duke” Manfredo, and stumbles upon the elusive film editor who stole the master negative of Showdown, it dispels her doubts, fills her with a courage she didn’t know she had, and she sets out to complete the movie.
But as Emily and her stars prepare for day one of shooting, they find themselves entangled in a complex love triangle with Oedipal undertones, mirroring their own past lives and off-screen dynamics. As doubts about their ruthless director, Solange Borugian, surface, Jimmy’s and Duke’s friendship is turned upside down, while Emily and her brother Ben, struggle with their own unresolved issues and are forced to confront their dying father.
On location in Arizona, amidst Apache holy grounds and the magic of day-for-night shooting, the lines between past and present blur and the flawed characters’ backstories intertwine into a tumultuous finale that exposes their hidden animosities, demons, and loves.
When I was a little girl, I’d sit on the floor in the living room, my against the chair my father sat in, the only light illuminating the room coming from the television. The only sound, the actor’s voices. No talking during a western movie. That was when my love for western movies began. And John Wayne. The Duke, loomed larger than life. His baritone drawl. His smile that looks like he knows something you don’t. And his trademark walk. I remembered thinking, I’m gonna marry that man. LOL
Mit Out Sound. Whispers of an unfinished movie starring John Wayne and James Dean. Emily, a woman who can’t seem to let it go. Determined to track down the supposed film and finish it. But how?
Emily meets two impersonators, dead ringers for a young James Dean and John Wayne. She gets her hands on the film. She begins to make the movie. From day one, nothing goes smoothly. Will the film get finished? Should it?
This book checked so many boxes for me. An intriguing mystery. A flawed protagonist. It’s character driven. And has such an original story line. As I read the book, I easily pictured it playing on the big screen. Such fun.
5 STARS
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Meet Author Rick Lenz:
When Rick Lenz retired as a stage and film actor (playing opposite Ingrid Bergman, John
Wayne, Lauren Bacall, Walter Matthau, Peter Sellers, etc.), his passion for drama refused to retire with him. Although he was an actor most of his life, he is also a seasoned writer.
His plays have been produced Off-Broadway, on PBS television, and in regional theatres across the country. Rick’s memoir North of Hollywood was called “masterful” by Writer’s
Digest. His first novel, The Alexandrite was named “one of the best books of the year” by Kirkus Reviews. Bret Easton Ellis called it “almost impossible to put down.” Booklife calls A Town Called Why, “An absorbing tale of mystery and revenge… nuanced … powerful.” Rick’s books have won several awards, including, Readers Views (first place), the Chanticleer Somerset Grand Prize for Literary, Contemporary and Mainstream Fiction, an IPPY Award, and a Foreword Book of the Year. Most recently, his time-travel love story Hello, Rest of My Life was a 2022 Silver Nautilus Book Award winner (fiction), and Eric Hoffer Award finalist (fiction).
He lives in Los Angeles with his wife Linda and an ever-shifting array of animals.
(The Red Hotel, #4)
Publication date: February 25th 2025
Genres: Adult, Thriller
A former U.S. President’s plane is brought down in the Atlantic. Revolutionary forces attack Cairo. The U.S. Secretary of State is kidnapped in Panama. A North Korean ballistic missile submarine tracks toward America’s West Coast. A sleeper cell spy awakens in the halls of Congress. A woman assassin takes aim on the Washington Mall. Behind it all is Russian President Nicolai Gorshkov who has mastered the ability to walk between the raindrops and not get wet. Until… China determines that Gorshkov’s policies are endangering its global initiatives… until Beijing issues Gorshkov a defiant ultimatum… until Dan Reilly, hotel executive/CIA freelancer, and friend of the Secretary of State, reads the moves on the international political chessboard and picks up the pieces. The non-stop action plays out on Air, Land, and Sea. Yet, with so many geo-political threads being tugged simultaneously, will the Russian leader succeed getting another step closer to rebuilding the old Soviet Empire in his image? (https://redhotelseries.com/)
“Yes, and you died! I saw it happen. The explosion from below. The fireball that swept up. Your last look. I’ve relived that moment every day since. Oh my God, Marnie, I was there. I saw it all.”
“And I’m here with you, Dan.” “You’re not. You can’t be.”
“I am and we can be together again.”
She reached out to him. Dan Reilly stepped back and stared. She was wearing the same dress, green blouse, and leather jacket she had worn that day in Stockholm; the day Marnie Babbitt returned to his hotel room seemingly regretful; wishing things were different; wanting to make them so.
“You loved me, Dan,” the brunette said softly. “You can love me again. Tonight. Here in Athens.”
Dan Reilly stopped retreating. Yes, he thought. Here. Athens.
He looked at the surroundings. Nighttime traffic was flowing along Adrianou Street. Horns honked. Couples walked arm-in-arm. Tourists window-shopped. Everything was normal until the woman he had desperately loved, the woman who had betrayed him stepped out of the shadows in front of him and into the light of a street lamp.
Dan Reilly had just concluded a successful business meeting at Kuzina, one of Athens’ most celebrated restaurants that boasted a magnificent view of The Temple of Hephaestus, the Agora, and the Acropolis. He had come to discuss the final terms for his company’s acquisition of a luxury hotel property currently owned by a Greek billionaire. It would take lawyers months to solidify the terms, but atop the restaurant’s Tarazza, with the golden glow of the Acropolis backlighting them, Reilly and the seller toasted to their relationship with a final glass of Ouzo.
It had been a good night for the International President of Kensington Royal Hotel Corporation. As he had walked along the cobblestones on Adrianou, Marnie Babbitt was not on his mind, but suddenly she was there alive and vibrant as ever. Her beauty took his breath away. Her voice was as soft and lilting as the last whispers in his ear.
Or the last lies, he thought.
“No lies, Dan,” she said as if reading his mind. “This time it will be different.”
At first, Reilly had felt immobile. Then he was drawn to her.
She reached out to him and stroked his cheek. Her touch was as present as ever. The light gave her an almost ethereal glow. She looked longingly into his eyes and proved she was alive with a lingering, deep kiss. Then she said, “Is that the kiss of a dead woman?”
Her tongue, her scent, and her breath were just as he remembered.
Just as he missed. So was the quickening of his heartbeat.
He withdrew and looked into her brown eyes. They were so bright and inviting.
“You missed me. I know you did.” She smiled and took a step back into the shadows. “Come with, Dan.”
The sounds of the city faded away. Gone were the car horns and sirens, people talking, dogs barking, car doors slamming, and footsteps on the sidewalk. Everything around him blurred. There was just Marnie and him. He felt his desire for her grow. Then he thought of Yibing Cheng, the woman now in his life.
“But—”
“It’s all right my darling. I know that there’s someone else. But I’m back. You want me.”
More thoughts from his head. How did she know? “You want us to be together again.”
“Marnie, I saw…
“You saw what we wanted you to see.”
She leaned forward and kissed him again. She felt him. He responded. “Now I’m here. To be with you.”
He withdrew.
“Don’t you want that, Dan? Don’t you want me?” “Marnie…”
“Yes.”
“Marnie,” he said again. “Yes, my love.”
“But you’re—”
She suddenly laughed. Her brown eyes went black.
Maybe it was the Ouzo, but all he initially felt was a prick in his stomach. Then he looked down. There was the hand that he had loved caressing. But now it held the black handle of a Russian Kizlyar Spetsnaz Special Forces knife.
He brought his eyes up to hers. She smiled cruelly, waited a moment, and then twisted the 6.5-inch blade and sliced upwards.
Reilly tried to speak. He couldn’t. He felt his legs crumble, but Marnie Babbitt’s grip on the knife kept him on his feet. She twisted again.
“Why?” Reilly silently gurgled.
“Because this is the way it should have ended.”
Marnie’s words confused him. He grabbed her hand with his. Blood soaked them both.
Should have ended?
Reilly tried to pull out the knife, but she was stronger. Life began to leave him.
With a sickly sweet laugh, she repeated, “This is the way it should have ended. You, not me.”
Should…have…ended. The words were familiar. He’d heard them before. Many times before.
“No!” Reilly shouted in full-throated defiance. “This is not how it should end! And…you…are… dead!”
“What?”
“You’re dead,” he shouted. “You’re dead!” “No, Dan. No! It’s all right.”
He was shaking violently. “Dan!”
Dan Reilly bolted upright. He automatically grabbed his stomach. It was wet, but from sweat, not blood. And the woman whose concerned voice was cutting through his dream belonged to Yibing Cheng.
“Dan, Dan, it’s okay. You’re here with me. Yibing.”
Reilly slowly collected his thoughts. Yibing turned on a night light and faced the man she’d been seeing for just a few months. They were in Athens, but he was not on the street bleeding. But he had had nights like this—in Paris, Washington, and where Reilly and Yibing had first met, Beijing.
“Your dream again?” she asked. He gathered his thoughts.
“Yes, except this time it was here. Outside our restaurant last night.
The street—”
“I’m so sorry,” Yibing said pulling him close to her naked body.
What did she do?”
“At least she didn’t throw me into a woodchipper this time,” Reilly replied lightly. “No plastic bag over my head. No fall from a cliff.” He rubbed his gut. “But she was pretty good with a knife, even for a dream.”
Reilly knew what was going on. Shrinks might call it PTSD. He saw it more as a combination of guilt over the fact that he failed to recognize Marnie Babbitt was a Russian plant and guilt that he couldn’t save her the moment he realized she wanted out. It was all manifesting itself in very vivid revenge dreams. But it was not paranoia.
There was more that wasn’t in his dream world. Dan Reilly had seen drones out his window after he and Yibing had returned from Beijing. He’d spotted people following them. And they were not his people. Not Yibing’s either.
For now, he viewed the tails and eavesdropping as intimidation. Russian or possibly Chinese. But it could get worse. It likely would get worse and not because he was an international hotel executive. It was his moonlighting. Dan Reilly had deep ties with officers at the CIA and even deeper ties with the United States Secretary of State.
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Author Bio:
ED FULLER is CEO of Laguna Strategic Advisors, a global consortium providing business consulting services worldwide. He has served on business and charitable boards during his 40-year career with Marriott International where he was chief marketing officer followed by 22 years as president and managing director of Marriott International. Under his management, the international division grew from 16 to 550 hotels in 73 countries with 80,000 associates and sales of $8 billion. Upon retirement, Fuller has served on five university boards and taught as adjunct professor for MBA and undergraduate students. He blogged for Forbes and other tourism and lodging industry media. His book, You Can’t Lead with Your Feet on the Desk, has been printed in English, Japanese and Chinese. Fuller served as captain in the U.S. Army, stationed in Germany and Vietnam and received the Bronze Star and the Army Commendation medals. He and Gary Grossman are co-authors of the Red Hotel series, including the 2018 thriller Red Hotel and the 2021 release, Red Deception, soon to be followed by Red Chaos.
Gary Grossman is author of the bestselling political thrillers EXECUTIVE ACTIONS,EXECUTIVE TREASON, EXECUTIVE COMMAND, and EXECUTIVE FORCE; a geological thriller that spans 4 billions years, OLD EARTH; and with co-author Ed Fuller, RED HOTEL, RED CHAOS, and RED DECEPTION. Grossman has also written two acclaimed non-fiction books covering pop culture and television history: SUPERMAN: SERIAL TO CEREAL and SATURDAY MORNING TV.
He is an Emmy Award-winning network television producer, a print and television journalist, a novelist and a film and TV historian. His career has included stints producing for NBC News, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox, PBS and 40 cable networks.
Grossman has produced more than 10,000 series episodes and specials through his TV production company Weller/Grossman Productions, and earned numerous awards including the prestigious Governor’s Emmy Award for a USA Network production and an Emmy for Best Informational series with the production of “Wolfgang Puck” for Food Network. Their documentary “Beyond the Da Vinci Code” (History Channel) earned two national Emmy nominations. In all, Grossman has received 14 Emmy nominations.
Grossman earned a Bachelors Degree in Communications from Emerson College in Boston and a Master’s Degree in Urban Affairs from Boston University.
He began his broadcasting career as a rock disc jockey at WHUC, in Hudson, New York. He worked at Boston television station, WBZ; joined The Boston Globe as a special contributor, and then became the television critic and media columnist at The Boston Herald American. His freelance articles have appeared in The New York Times and numerous magazines. He taught journalism and media at Emerson College, Boston University, USC and now Loyola Marymount University’s Graduate School of Film and Television.
Grossman helped formulate, program and launch television cable networks including HGTV, National Geographic Channel, and The Africa Channel.
Grossman has served on the Emerson College Board of Trustees where he chaired the Academic Affairs Committee. He is also a member of the Boston University Metropolitan College Advisory Board. For four years he was chair of the Government Affairs Committee for the Caucus for Television Producers, Directors & Writers, a Hollywood-based media activist group. He is member of The International Thriller Writers Association.
Welcome to my stop on thye virtual book tour for The Art Of Online Dating organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.
Author Fleur Lamot 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.
The Art Of Online Dating
By Fleur Lamot
Genre: Non-fiction
Synopsis
A step-by-step guide to navigating dating and finding love on the World Wide Web, written by someone with firsthand experience on the topic, and who has also tested the theory on a number of case studies and through research. Authored from a female perspective, directed to a female audience, although potentially an eye opening and helpful read for a male reader too.
This book is not about making you a better person, nor is it a self help book. It is about changing your mindset when embarking on singledom and internet dating to not fear it, by equipping you with the understanding of people’s actions and motives.
Throughout the book you will be guided in setting up your online profile, picking your match, the all important art and the do’s and don’ts through every step of courting someone, all the way to going forward with your ultimate love match!
Reading this book will bring you confidence and or at least clarity. It will make you think about your past experiences and open your eyes to see where they may have gone wrong, and more importantly to ensure the same mistakes don’t happen to you on future experiences.
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Enjoy this peek inside:
Long gone are the days of meeting a potential partner in a bar or at a music festival or at parties. You might be lucky enough to do so, but as time goes on and you get older, or as you and your potentials rely more on technology to meet someone, or as you lose the skills to do so by becoming accustomed to technology, the chances are getting thinner. There will be fewer parties with fewer single people, or there will be more awkward interactions at these parties, or your friends will grow old and become tired of attending music festivals and going to bars. Also, let’s face it: as we get older, the music at venues become too loud and we simply just want to have a good conversation, good food, and good wine which brings on more occasions like dinner events and dinner parties. These are the least likely type of events to meet someone, unless you are lucky enough to be set up by a mutual friend.
So, you might find yourself single and at a loss. Maybe it simply might be that all your friends are in relationships and you have no one to go out with. This is where online dating comes into play. Online dating has such a bad stigma, but if you look at it at another way, whilst your friends are becoming old and boring or are in relationships and/or just don’t want to go out anymore for whatever reason, you have an infinite number of potential new people to meet and play with who are in the exact same boat as you.
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About Author Fleur Lamot:
I successfully found love online using historical principles, understanding people’s motives and actions, listening to the right people, as well as trusting my own instincts. I am now married and a mother. I am a business woman with a very successful business, built from extensive networking and relationship management experience. I have received professional mentoring and coaching, which has helped me achieve all of this.
Bound by blood, Marked by
rebellion, Destined for a love that could save or destroy
them.
A forbidden
bond. A crumbling city. A choice that could change everything.
Serenity
Becoming an Elite—a blood donor for the Vampyr—was never part of the plan. But
with my family’s lives on the line, I had no choice but to step out of hiding
and into a world I barely understand. My rare blood has made me a target, and
now, I’m bound to Kane—the ruthless, untouchable head of the Vampyr Council.
The rebels want to use me. My family depends on me. And Kane… he’s the only one
who can keep me alive—but trusting him? That might be the most dangerous gamble
of all.
Kane
I never wanted an Elite. I certainly didn’t need one—especially not Serenity.
She’s everything I’ve avoided: human, stubborn, and a complication I can’t
afford. But from the moment I met her, she turned my world upside down.
Her blood sustains me, but it’s her spirit that leaves me hungry for more. As
rebellion threatens to tear the city apart, my focus should be on holding
everything together—not on the one woman who’s become my greatest weakness.
She’s more than just a distraction. She’s a risk. One I shouldn’t take.
But I can’t let her go. And if I’m not careful, she might destroy me—or save us
all.
In a world
where blood is currency and love is forbidden, Bound is a
spellbinding tale of passion, betrayal, and a bond that could shatter a city—or
bring it to its knees.
Fans of
dstopyian fantasy, forbidden romance, and slow-burn tension will devour Bound,
the first book in The Elite Series.
Every person, regardless of age or hatred for their kind, yearned to be selected. Deep down, they craved the privileges of being an Elite—the ones who willingly offered themselves to the vampyrs. But not her.
Serenity had no such desires; she refused to be a meal for anyone, no matter how tempting the rewards seemed. Yet, her personal feelings were irrelevant now. This program was her last hope, and if it didn’t work, she dreaded turning to Jax for help—something she desperately wanted to avoid.
Looking up at the clock, its hands slowly ticked as she waited for the nurse to arrive and begin the process that would, hopefully, improve her and her family’s lives.
Sighing deeply to calm her rising nerves, Serenity’s eyes wandered around the office, taking in the sterile and impersonal atmosphere. Four white walls encased a stark, bare office containing only the essentials: a simple desk, a utilitarian chair, a computer, a printer, and a cold, metal filing cabinet. There were no pictures or decorations. It was as if they intentionally designed it to be unwelcoming, discouraging any sense of comfort or happiness.
Honestly, it didn’t make any sense. One would think they would try to create a more inviting space to welcome potential Elites. The environment’s lack of warmth and care showed her what she was truly signing up for and how she’d be treated as soon as her application was approved.
And they would approve it. She did not doubt that.
Serenity had the type of blood that the vampyr wanted… and craved. At least, that was what her father told her. Only those with the rarest of blood types were selected as Elites.
Anyone whose blood type was A or B was automatically entered into the system as a donor, regardless of whether they were positive or negative. O positives were rarely chosen, and O negatives had better chances only if specifically requested. AB positives, the rarest of the rare type, were treated like gold and were consistently selected as Elites, typically matched with the wealthiest of the vampyrs. This made Serenity think despite their claims, money still talked within their society. AB negatives were a myth, according to the locals. Still, they were believed to represent a divine gift in vampiric lore, ‘ambrosia,’ so treasured that only the upper echelons in vampyr society knew of their existence.
As an AB negative, her blood was revered as the most delectable drink. She almost felt violated knowing that such an intimate part of her was seen as a commodity, something to be consumed with primal delight. It wasn’t just about her, though.
The Elite program was supposed to bring balance and peace between the two races, a part of the treaty the humans and vampyrs signed before she was born. But it seemed the vampyrs ruled their lives, despite humans sitting on the city’s governing Council. All the rules seemed to cater to the vampyrs survival, not humanity’s. It was infuriating.
When the office door opened, Serenity turned in her chair to see a petite woman in black scrubs walking through. The woman had caramel-colored skin and dark eyes. A laminated card clipped to her shirt read “Shelia” in bold capital letters.
“Can I have your name, please?” the nurse asked, sitting on the other side of the desk and placing a clipboard with an application next to the computer.
Such a simple question, but for Serenity, it was surrendering to the inevitable. Call it an innate feeling, but she had always known she would end up here signing up to be an Elite.
She couldn’t explain how, but a small part of her, deep inside, suspected it had to do with the rarity of her blood type. As if it had always known this would be her fate. But it was only a feeling and possibly the wariness of her situation.
Either way, she was here now. Taking a deep breath, she reluctantly spoke her name aloud. “Serenity.”
The words felt like a prison sentence once they left her mouth. Every inch of her screamed for her to get up and run away. They only had her first name. There was still the possibility of escape. She could get on the bus and go back home, where it was safe.
But she couldn’t. Not if she wanted to save her family. This was her choice, her sacrifice.
Her mother couldn’t become an Elite because of her sickness, and her sister was too young and sick, so it had to be her. They needed medicine, and this was the only way they could afford it.
Shelia’s kind smile and soothing voice washed over her, easing the tension in her shoulders. “What is your full name, honey? You don’t have to be nervous. You may not even get approved. This is just the application stage,” she assured her.
She was right; this was just the application process. She hadn’t even given a blood sample yet.
If Serenity was being honest with herself, she couldn’t deny the fear that gripped her. The thought of encountering a vampyr had always terrified her. She had hoped never to face one, but now, everything was about to change. She was preparing to leave behind everything she knew.
But she pushed those thoughts aside for the moment. She needed to focus on getting through this, or else her instincts would take over, and she would flee. Steeling herself with a deep breath, she forced the words out. “Serenity R. Wright.”
Shelia punched her name into the machine, attempting to assess her medical history. Her father had burned and erased every document that could identify her blood type a long time ago, insisting it was to keep her safe from them.
As Shelia stared intently at the screen, Serenity knew she was seeing the bare minimum of information. Her father had been thorough in keeping her out of the system. She had been homeschooled, never left the human districts, and always kept a low profile.
The scent of her mother’s homemade herbal concoction lingered on every piece of clothing she wore. The blend of lemon tea tree oil, activated charcoal, rosemary, and vanilla was meant to hide her natural scent.
Since she was young, she’d relied on it to cover up her unique scent. Her mother would create soap and shampoo for her to use and a specialized spray for when she ventured out into public. She always carried a small bottle of vinegar with her, a precaution in case she encountered any vampyrs.
She also wore a light brown cloak whenever she went out. But her mother believed her father’s true intentions were to hide her curly hair and honey-brown eyes, fearing they would attract unwanted attention. She never left without her cloak whenever she traveled, especially outside their district.
Except for today. She felt vulnerable without it but wouldn’t need it after this.
Shelia glanced up from the computer with curiosity evident in her eyes. “The only record we have of you in the system is your birth date. Have you never had a physical?”
It didn’t surprise Serenity that the woman was curious. If she were in her shoes, she would feel the same way. Her answer was simple: “My father was a doctor. He handled all my physicals and medical records.”
The memory of her father hung heavy in the air. He had been training her to be a nurse to help her mother and sister with their medical needs. But his life was cut short by a sudden heart attack during one of his routine trips into the city for more medicine.
With his absence, Serenity felt a part of herself missing; however, her family relied on her strength.
“He didn’t update your records.” Shelia glanced back at the screen and asked, “What was his name?”
“Dr. Richard J. Wright.” She wouldn’t find him in the system. He never officially returned to practicing as a doctor after the war. He only worked as an informal doctor for their neighbors and friends.
The nurse’s brows scrunched in concentration as she surveyed her computer screen. “I can’t find him in the system, and your records have not been updated. We’ll need to do a physical today and draw blood to get your blood type for your application. Let me see if we can squeeze you in with Dr. Bradford.”
Serenity anticipated this; she had mentally prepared for this precise moment. But even with all her preparation, she couldn’t shake the waves of anxiety that threatened to engulf her. Soon, they would know her secret, and she would be in danger. But her family would be saved, reaping the benefits of her becoming an Elite.
She despised the crushing weight of her family’s future on her shoulders; the pressure was almost suffocating. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her chest tightened as she struggled to hold back a sob.
Needing to gather herself, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, seeking respite from the tension. Her mind raced with conflicting thoughts, and she was torn between the responsibility she bore and the fear of what lay ahead.
It was a delicate balancing act; her determination to be strong for her family clashing with the nagging doubt and uncertainty gnawing at her resolve. She knew she had to be here, but that didn’t make it any easier. The emotional turmoil within her was like a storm raging beneath a calm exterior.
With a quiet yet determined resolve, Serenity opened her eyes, squared her shoulders, and braced herself for whatever lay beyond those cold, impersonal walls. She couldn’t let anxiety derail her; her family depended on her strength.
“Don’t worry, honey.” The sympathy in Shelia’s eyes didn’t help her worry. “The physical exam is painless, and the blood drawing is quick and painless.”
But it wasn’t the exam that made Serenity anxious. She was uncertain what would happen once her application was submitted, and there was no turning back.
Shelia typed a few more notes on her computer.
“Alright. I was able to squeeze you with Dr. Bradford. She is wonderful. This way.”
Shelia stood, grabbing a piece of paper from the printer before moving towards the door. Serenity stood to follow when suddenly Shelia stopped and turned back to her.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Shelia asked with a seriousness that almost made Serenity want to run. “Once we walk out the door, there is no turning back. Your name will be filed into the system forever.”
Even if she wasn’t approved by some chance of fate, her name would still be recorded in their databases, making her a potential target in a future blood drought—which meant that if they ever ran out of human recruits, they could call upon her. It was one of the risks she took by even walking into the clinic, but it was her only choice.
“I understand your concern, and thank you for it, but I have to do this.”
Shelia nodded slightly and opened the door. Her eyes, wide with uncertainty, met Serenity’s briefly before she led them into the hallway, closing the door behind them.
Serenity was happy to know that at least one of the nurses here cared about the humans who signed up and ensured this was their choice. This gave her some hope that this whole process wouldn’t be as dreadful as she thought.
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and followed Shelia into the hallway, heart pounding as she contemplated what lay ahead.
.
Charley Black is
an up-and-coming writer and author who has been creating stories since she was
twelve years old. Her early short stories dabbled in different genres, but her
passion for romance novels — paranormal romance in particular — always shone through.
Charley currently resides in Rhode Island, with her family and works at a local
university.
When truths uncovered cannot be forgotten. Or forgiven.
.
.
Faeries Don’t Forgive
Heart of the Worlds Book 2
by TF Burke
Genre: YA Epic Fantasy
Returning to Nonderu,
the underworld court, to rescue her dad should have been simple after the
malevolent soul-sucking Boggleman fell to his presumable demise. They just need
to find a way in. And get past the Mockmen trolls.
Instead, Aunia is attacked by a fanatical soldier cult that seeks to kill or
capture her. Plus, her unmanageable magic notifies deadly wererats of her
location. It also hurls her into an evil sorceress’ study. If all this wasn’t
enough, she’s fighting a different battle with Mathias, her pegasus-riding
love. His insistence to keep her hidden is more infuriating than any of their
enemies. It leaves her determined to kick anyone who says first love is easy.
Worst of all are the truths she’s uncovering. Truths that can’t be forgotten.
Or forgiven.
What makes a man something worth admiring and when will you doubt his worth? — Queen Didianne, in the reign of the mad queen
A buzzing brushed Aunia’s skin like a hive of bees as she lurched in a mad attempt to keep her footing. The smell of woods, perfumes, and herbs had disappeared and in its place was the stench of waste, unfamiliar food, and burning metal.
A village-full of voices swirled within the buzzing . . . one pulled at her plaintively, though she couldn’t make out the words. Dust skated over Aunia’s feet as she appeared in a long boxed-in area surrounded by bulging timber buildings covered in faded paint and smeared pitch. And pressed within this area were more people than she had seen in her entire life.
“I said let the child go,” a gruff voice said from behind her.
Aunia swiveled.
An older man with a broken-nose, well-muscled and tall, like Oskan from her village, stood in front of two men in red cloaks.
“We don’t take orders from you, Mason,” the shorter of the two red-cloaked men said. He yanked a small boy towards him by the arm and the child’s sandy-haired head bounced off his chest.
“He’s hungry is all,” the broken-nose man said. “I’ll pay for him.”
“Bugger off,” the red cloak said.
Aunia stepped forward. “You can’t let a child go hungry.”
Several of the people glared at her.
“Shut your mouth, rover,” said a pillar-built woman with a messy bun, brown hair streaked in gray. She stood in front of a building with large windows and a swinging sign, which read ‘Forged Tankard.’ “Ain’t no food he stole.”
“Brana,” the broken-nosed man growled.
The woman rolled her eyes and pushed past him, holding up a small ring with two finger-length keys. “Missing these?”
The larger of the two red-cloaked men reached under his cloak patted his side, and his face turned red. “It’s the stocks for ye, boy.”
The boy dropped to the cobblestones and the shorter, red-cloaked man yanked him back one-handed. Held his other hand high to strike.
“Stop it,” Aunia yelled.
The larger of the red-cloaked men turned in her direction.
“Not the stocks.” A bearded man in a long-sleeved patchwork tunic, white powder streaks along his sleeves, stepped forward. “You’ve the boy’s mother in custody already. She was an unbraceleted faeblood. He’d be the same. You know it. It’s prison he should go.”
Faces pressed against the glass windows of the Forged Tankard’s tavern. Some folk stepped forward. Others melted back, including the broken-nosed man.
Aunia shook. Taya was indeed right of cities being dangerous. If this was how they treated small children . . . but what could she do? She was only one in a crowd.
“Stop,” she slid back, beseeching the broken-nose man. “You have to help. He’s just a boy.”
But the man slid into a narrow alleyway between the tavern and another building, and past a pig rooting in a pile of broken barrels, jugs, food scraps, and rags.
“She ain’t my mom,” the child screamed. “Not my real one. She picked me out of the garbage. I was just a slave to her.”
The taller, red-cloaked man yanked the child’s sleeve up. “Unbraceleted. You. Run to the Yanna’s forge. Grab a cuff. Now.”
“Don’t be thinking of calling on any magic,” the shorter, red-cloaked man said, bending to sneer those words in the child’s face.
“I’m . . . not a faeblood.” The child stopped his struggling and with his wrist in the guard’s grip, pointed in Aunia’s direction. “That’s the one you want. A real faeblood. Didn’t you see? She just skipped out of nowhere.”
The larger man straightened. “You. Rover.”
Aunia backed away, nearly colliding with a press of people guarding her back. Rover? But of course, she was wearing their garb. And by their expression and harsh tone, they did not like rovers.
“Don’t think you’re going anywhere,” one woman in a dark gray gown said.
Faeblood . . . this is how the people saw Reina. “I’ve . . . I’m looking for flyers,” Aunia said. “I flew with them over the Grashbear. Mathias. Keston. Fallo. You’ve had to have seen them. This is Dalin, isn’t it?”
The scowls of the people deepened. They shuffled closer. People in front of her and behind her, but the alleyway . . . could she flee with that pig in the way? Pig. She blinked. It had a quilted cloth saddle fastened around its girth with knotted cloth straps. And stitched cloth saddlebags hanging along the pig’s side. Who would be riding a pig?
[for a 700+ word excerpt use the verbiage above OR include the rest of the chapter for just under 1500 words]
“Look alive,” a raspy voice sounded.
Aunia squinted. Amongst the broken wooden boxes and broken jars, two little men, shin-high, drank from a clay jar over half the size they were. Clurichauns with their rosy, weathered faces. They were solitary beings generally. The last time she saw one was in Gaitha’s basement lapping up a bit of spilled apple brandy.
Someone, the taller red-cloak, grabbed Aunia’s upper arm and a raw thrill, like a sharp nail, rose through her throat. “Leave me be.”
She yanked. He held her firm, his fingers pressing into her flesh like a vise.
The adrenaline spike landed against the pit of her stomach like a stone. Mygul. She sucked in a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to coax a pinching sensation in her temples. Nothing. Her mouth turned to dry paper. Did she even have her glowing blue globefire anymore? She hadn’t seen it since the Boggleman’s veil tendril lodged itself in her gut when she stood on Hebsolum’s palm. Did that mean Hebsolum had it? Hebsolum, the thief who took her mother’s amulet. The only good thing he had done was to help her cage the roiling blue storm cloud made of Edvaras’ magic . . . but her bit of magic . . . the one that caused mischief, made her an outcast, kept her safe. He must have taken it, too.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Prison. Was that where they were sending her? How would Mathias even find her? A soft mew escaped her and Aunia shook her head. She couldn’t show weakness. And there were clurichauns. Faeries often would help her. Would these?
She turned her head to the alleyway where the clurichauns swilled leftover booze from broken crockery. “Help me.”
One of the clurichauns looked her way, bright eyes going wide. “She sees us.” His voice, gravelly and sing-song, sounded over the clamor of human voices.
“She don’t.” The blonder of the two clapped the auburn one’s shoulder. “She do. Drat it. On our way, Sharpish.” He pointed to the pig.
“She be the one Mara made mention.”
“We can’t be making the Boggles mad now, can we, you know,” the blonde one said. “We go.”
The Boggles? Did he mean the Boggleman? Aunia struggled against her restraint. “I want to, too.”
“Want to what?” the red-cloaked man sneered.
“Want you to let go,” Aunia said between her teeth. “You’re hurting me.”
The man tightened his grip. “I’m barely holding you.”
Aunia struggled toward the alleyway. Saying please would cause possible faery aid to disappear but what poem could she utter? Aunia groaned. “Help me now it’s good folk fashion. Aid to for those who seek compassion.”
“You call that a poem,” the blonde clurichaun said. He shook his head then made a running jump onto the pig’s back. His green pants contrasted with the wine-stained saddle. “Come on, brother.”
“Brandy. I’ll bring you brandy,” Aunia yelled.
“No one bribes the guard.” The stinging heat from his slap rang into her cheekbones. “Where’s that Davis? Cuff her good and she can blubber whatever nonsense with the other lobheads.
“Don’t know,” the shorter of the red-cloaked men said. He still clutched the boy’s arm. “But that face is sweet even with your handprint.”
Gargle patted the saddle. “There’s another tavern were—”
“Certain things don’t get done. Now off brother, lest you go for a ride.”
The two clurichauns glared at each other while some of the townsfolk shuffled aside and a thin man with iron cuffs jogged forward.
Gargle dismounted. “It’s on you if this is a bad decision.”
“I’m always the one you blame.” Sharply scooped up the neck of a broken bottle, drew his arm back and made a mighty throw at the pig’s backside. It hit with a thunk and the pig gave a squeal. People standing at the mouth of the alleyway fell back as the pig pelted straight for Aunia and the red-cloaked man.
“Doxy-churl,” the guardsmen swore. He staggered back, pulling Aunia with him out of the way but Aunia yanked with everything she had in the other direction. The man’s fingers slid over her upper arm painfully. There was the sharp rip of fabric. And then she was free.
Aunia ran.
.
.
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Faeries Don’t Lie
Heart of the Worlds Book 1
.
Can Two Worlds Survive an Augury?
Releasing a Chandarion’s god-like magic into the world isn’t what
sixteen-year-old Aunia, the village’s outcast, intends. She only wants to
impress Mathias, a visiting seventeen-year-old pegasus flyer, who fiercely
believes the choice—either Faery or Mortal world surviving—has come.
Her action calls forth the Boggleman, a soul-sucking ghoul, who abducts her
dad, eats her faery friends, and sets Dagel demons on her isolated village. And
worse.
The worlds of Ahnu-Endynia are full of faeries, pegasi flyers, myths, secrets,
and themes of belonging, despite being misunderstood. And if you don’t watch
carefully . . . You might be pulled into the Betwixt. . . the space between the
worlds.
Explaining true love to a garden faery wasn’t easy. Aunia tapped her pitchfork against the stone-slabbed floor and wrinkled her nose against the golden dust while her faery friend, Jennium, landed between a nanny goat’s ears. The escaped animal froze in place in front of the long wooden goat pens while the faery sat cross-legged on her furry perch, folding her iridescent wings, purples, blues, and yellows.
Another of Jennium’s mind-pictures arose in Aunia’s head. This one was of the villagers, old and young, dancing arm-in-arm in twisting steps around a bonfire—fiery sparks rising to the stars.
“That’s the party afterwards. True love is how you feel. How your heart would give away every constellation to see your beloved smile.” Aunia flipped her blond braid over her shoulder and wished she could disappear into the slithering crack along the stable’s high-vaulted ceiling—or, better yet, fly away to the faery world . . .if that doorway wasn’t watched. “But like I said, there’s no one here for me.”
Unlike the two lovers exchanging mating beads this night, she would stand in the shadows as an outcast, too different to be accepted. At sixteen years of age, she needed to accept this would be her life. She scooped another pitchfork of dirty hay onto the dung heap.
Jennium propelled another image—Aunia’s father standing, back turned and shoulders slumped, at his favorite fishpond. The faery tipped her raven-haired head as if to ask, “And where’s your father’s true love?”
Aunia’s hands slid on the pitchfork. She couldn’t answer that. Her father refused to talk about her. But it was obvious he clung to her memory—whoever she was. And he had to have loved her real mom desperately. Why else would he have treated Nehla like a sister. A sister he couldn’t save from being skewered by a wild boar. An accident. An awful, terrible accident.
Stomping, Aunia passed the long pen of bleating goats and turned up the middle junction of horse stalls to the quadruple-sized hay-less stall that had been Nehla’s pottery work area. She frowned at the grain buckets lining the shoulder-high wall where clay boards used to stand. She padded to Nehla’s pottery wheel, draped with a green and yellow blanket, and pressed her knuckles against the scratchy wool. Three years later and it still hurt.
With a light jingle, Jennium landed on Aunia’s head and projected another image—a woman’s silhouette, but not Nehla.
Aunia pulled her hand away from the pottery wheel. For a moment, she made out the curve of the woman’s left cheek, so like her own. Then, the silhouette was gone.
“I don’t remember my mother,” Aunia said. “But she probably had faery sight like me. Maybe she could even see people’s glows.”
A whiny buzz brushed against Aunia’s hair and a shiny green bug dove behind the stall’s black walnut wood.
Jennium launched up, and Aunia winced at the tug, reaching to free the faery’s tiny feet from her braid. Jennium yanked through, chittering, and landed on an empty pottery shelf—one that rested on iron spikes nailed into the wall. Those spikes had been made from Nehla’s sacrificed pot hooks to keep faeries from breaking freshly made bowls.
“How are you—”
A screech from the stable’s front door sent Aunia crouching behind the pottery wheel.
“The bottle in the back ought to muffle the evening proper,” said Sigmus with his deep wheezy voice.
Aunia tensed. Her father’s closest friend would still be livid about the faeries shoving tadpoles in his boots from yesterday’s yesterday. But it had been his own fault. He had insulted the water fae.
Aunia tiptoed forward and peeked over the stall’s wall. These two were supposed to be stacking wood for the cooking fires. Her father’s head and shoulders, glowing with his usual brick-red aura, seem to float above the horse pen-wall—or did until he dodged a buzzing insect.
Sigmus swiveled, cracking his hands together, presumably squashing the bug. “Ain’t no grace-fall smushing your own pest.”
Dad jutted his jaw. “I can’t do that.”
“And you get a grumping every beading.”
Dad’s red glow dulled. “I am happy for them.”
“Sure. It makes all the sense you hankering to sneak off to the sheep cave.”
“Fish pond,” Dad clarified.
“Well, I’ve a better idea. Wait here.” Sigmus waddled up the middle aisle toward her.
Aunia ducked, pressing a hand over her mouth. Her sigh filled her palm when his footfalls veered toward the nearby tack and storage room.
Sheep-cave? No one was allowed near them. Dad himself had told her the Boggleman lived there now. She eased to a trousered knee and considered. Sigmus was probably just saying that for shock and her father was looking to wander off to be alone.
She had wanted to sneak away earlier, too. Sneak past the gate-minders to the woods for a game of tag with the moss-gnomes or maybe cajole a dryad into playing a whistle-tune. She had almost made it through the gate but got caught, so she ran and hid in the stable.
Aunia leaned against the chest-high wall. It would be better to stay with faery friends instead of being in the village.
The tack room door grumbled open, followed with chalky scuffles from dried leather and thud-clack of ceramics. Sigmus hooted. He probably stashed another bottle of the apothecary’s cider brandy.
Sigmus exited the tack room, popped the bottle, and shouted, “Figure you’ll get a fair healing, spilling out your sorrows.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” her father called back.
Stars. How long am I going to need to hide while they drink?
Sigmus pranced past her stall. Aunia inched forward. Her father stood about ten yards from her in the middle aisle and close to the dung heap.
“Ah, so you say,” Sigmus said. “But I knows these beading ceremonies remind you of yer Tamorian lady wife.”
Tamorian? Lightning crackled in Aunia’s belly and erupted against the back of her throat. “You’ll tell him about my mother but not me.”
Dad whirled in her direction, his glow retreating to a scant fingers-width around his head. She marched out of the pen while Sigmus stepped in her way.
“Move, Sigmus,” she said. “I’m talking to my father. My dad, not yours.”
Sigmus raised his hand. “You’re supposed to be stirring them stew pots.”
“Like you gathering wood?” Aunia tried sidestepping him but Sigmus’ elbow clipped the side of her head. She hunched-over, wishing she could melt Sigmus “Sourling-Beast” into pudding ash.
.
.
TF Burke currently
works with NYT David Farland’s Apex-Writers as an admin and marketing
specialist, where she schedules industry leaders for weekly multi-Zoom calls,
provides content for social posts, and hosts several writer-focused Zooms.
Her published works includes hundreds of newspaper articles, blog posts across
various platforms, anthologies, including MURDERBUGS, the second volume of the
Unhelpful Encyclopediam a collection of short stories in WHIRL OF THE FAE, and
the first book of the Heart of the Worlds Series, FAERIES DON’T LIE.
When not writing or wearing other hats, she can be found with a sword and a
dagger in her hands for medieval-style fencing tournaments and melees,
something she’s been doing since 2010.
NYPD Detective James Early wanted out. Taking his death wish into a tenement on the Lower east side, he stepped into a hail of machine-gun fire…and waited. But the bullets never arrived. Somehow they had been “diverted” and his life saved. Now he had to find out why.
Ricochetting between the mountains of Tibet, the streets of New York City and the haunted corridors of past lives, Early attempts to track down this mystery. A devastating truth from his previous lifetime awaits him. At its core lies a pure and innocent love that led to carnage and death. In the process of discovery, however, Early mysteriously gains access to a database of past lives (the Akashic Records), and begins to understand the submerged element that underlies the human condition—the godfather of change. Karma.
Infused with this new awareness, Early hits the streets—this time “awakened” to the deeper layers. Immediately, he is flung into the frantic hunt for an unknown assassin who has declared a private war on America and has already killed seven times.
While the combined forces of the NYPD, FBI and Interpol comb the streets looking for clues, James Early follows the twisting light.
In the end, it will come down to a wild card: The Karma Factor
.
Praise for The Karma Factor:
“The Karma Factor not only delivers on all its IOUs—it provides ample food for thought as to how we live our lives and our connection to the cosmos.” ~ Joey Madia, Into the Outer Realms
“Demonstrating remarkable literary talent, Thomas Lane transcends the troubled police detective trope by incorporating elements of Eastern philosophy, predestination and reincarnation in this fast-paced thriller. In the tradition of The DaVinci Code and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Lane’s debut novel The Karma Factor is entertaining and thought-provoking; introducing readers to characters and concepts that are not often given center stage in Western culture…” ~ BOOKTRIB
“Tom Lane has written a powerful story of inner transformation and outer suspense and heroism that will have you turning pages, inspiring you to understand your own life within a new cosmic framework. I couldn’t put it down.” ~ Robert Thurman, Professor Emeritus of Tibetan Buddhism, Translator for the Dalai Lama and Author of Wisdom Is Bliss
In times of crisis, James Early often found himself listening to the background noise of the city, the churning mantra of Manhattan that drifted up from the streets below. Somehow all those harsh single notes—the honking horns, the squealing brakes—could blend together and end up sounding restful, like the wash of the sea.
But tonight, watching her put her clothes back on, the air was charged and full of static. He had his reasons, but he hated himself for causing her this moment.
Lit only by the flickering light from the fireplace, Kelli Girard stood with her back to him, pulling on her skirt. Usually, after being together, getting dressed was a graceful act, a physical celebration of her womanhood. But on this evening, her motions were clipped and terse. Right then, the world was an ugly place. On top of everything else, she broke another nail fighting with the buttons on her blouse. She spoke without looking up.
“Come on, Early. This stinks. Throw me a bone here. Say something that makes sense.” Balancing on one foot, she leaned down and slipped on a high heel. “You won’t even give me the satisfaction of a cliché. There’s no ‘other woman.’ You’re not doing the ‘you deserve better’ bit. Nothing. Just—bang! It’s over. And you can’t even tell me why?” She stood up and smoothed down her clothes. “But I’ll tell you how it feels. Like you’ve had your little fling with the secretary. And now it’s time to toss her back into the general pool where she belongs. Cold, Early. Really cold.” He remained silent, compulsively rubbing his forehead, pushing back a clump of grey-tinged dark hair. In truth, there was too much to say, but words would trivialize it. And it had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with anything he understood. All he knew was that his mind was finally giving way. The hostile voices and images were crowding him out. And he couldn’t access the language to describe it… Early finally stood up. At thirty-eight years old and driven, he was still lean and muscular. A hybrid of Irish and Jewish ancestry, his thin, sculpted face seemed overwhelmed by a collection of strong irregular features. Growing up in Brooklyn and living the daily warfare of the streets had deepened and darkened the effect, giving him an intense, somewhat brooding presence. As he turned toward her, his expression remained cloaked. “You’re making it worse. This was never about the big love. We knew that from the start. We’re friends, remember? Let’s leave it there before we regret the whole thing.” She turned away from him, almost fiercely, then checked herself and sighed. “What’s the use? You’ve got everyone else duped. I hear the talk. By day, the great legendary cop—intuitive, ballsy. Down at the station, a James Early hunch is considered gospel. And, on top of all that, he’s a regular good guy. Nothing but hard work and ‘go team, go.’” She squinted at him in the semidarkness. “But after hours? Well, strange things come out to play. Guy’s got a flip side. He’s doing women, liquor, God knows what else. And here’s the sad part. He’s working hard at it, but the bad boy thing doesn’t fit him. Doesn’t fit him at all.” She paused, retrieved her earrings from the bedside table, and jammed them into her purse. “So who’s James Early? The jury’s absolutely still out.” Early grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen. I’m bone-tired, and I’m not right. I have nightmares, vicious ones. I wake up sweating, with no memories—just worn out. And the pressure never quits, never gives me a day off. Right now, all I want to do is go sit on a beach somewhere and forget. But I can’t. And there’s no room . . . no room for anything else until I sort it all out.” He slackened his grip. “I can’t care if you don’t understand. I’m just asking you not to take it personally.” His words slapped her quiet. For a moment, she stopped her barrage and actually studied him. It had only been five months ago, but no, this was not the same man she had flirted with in a Soho bar. The sharp features seemed worn down, the grey-green eyes colder, more distant. Even his skin looked paler, drawn more tightly across his cheekbones. With his guard down, her sometimes-lover did seem ten years older and running very rough. “Hey Early, it’s the twentieth century. You feel messed up—you see somebody. There are medications that—” “Zombies and junkies. No thanks. I’ll take my chances.” He mustered his best smile. “I just need to regroup. I’ll get through it. People do it every day.” Kelli resumed her packing. Wadding up her negligee into a ball, she tossed it unceremoniously into her overnight bag. “I thought I got in there,” she said softly, “but I swear there’s an electric fence around you.” He shrugged. It was true –– he avoided real intimacy. It was all about sex and liquor–– mind numbing sensation and quick routes to oblivion that had gotten hm through the nights. Now even that wasn’t working. The flames in the fireplace had softened into embers—a steady orange sheen bathing the room. As Kelly zipped up her bag, Early slipped on his underwear and trousers, then got her coat from the closet. Taking her arm, he navigated her around the chaos on the cluttered floor. Her traditional comment about the maid’s night off went unspoken. At the door, he put his arm around her waist. His six feet towered above her diminutive frame. “It’s better for both of us this way. I mean it.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Please take care of yourself.” “Whatever.” She fixed her collar. “I’m not going to hold my breath, but if you need or want . . . hell, just a friend, call me.” She leaned up against him and gave him a girlish kiss on the cheek. Turning quickly, she disappeared down the stairs into the darkness of the lower landing. When he could no longer hear the click of her heels, he closed the door softly, then sagged against it, exhausted from his efforts. It was getting harder and harder to hold the surface together while the foundation was breaking into pieces… He willed himself upright and into the living room, where he collapsed into the armchair in front of the fireplace. Alone now, the fire hissed and danced quietly before him. His eyes scrutinized the small studio apartment. He was struck by its sadness, struck by the pervading sense of loneliness. The room was inhabited, yes, but not lived in. It hadn’t always been that way. When, as a rookie cop, he had first moved in, he had commanded the space. Within months, he had turned it into a bastion of discipline and masculine aesthetics: dark wood and brick and things in their rightful places. As his condition worsened, however, things unraveled. Chaos was an easy mistress. Now, from the unmade bed to a floor strewn with empty bottles, pizza boxes, and newspapers, no sense of home was being articulated. Maybe it never would again. Early leaned over and pulled his .38 revolver from the shoulder holster on the end table. It felt like a touchstone; the weight, the cold metal in his hand oddly soothing. The cylinder spun effortlessly beneath his fingertips. Round and round. He lifted it to his ear and smiled obliquely. Chamber music. With the heel of his hand, he brought the spinning cylinder to an abrupt halt, then unloaded a single bullet. Turning it around between his thumb and index finger, Early examined it carefully. Sexy. A jewel of death. Rotating the chamber slowly, he emptied the rest of the ammo into his hand until all six bullets lay nestled in his palm. They were asleep now. A family. At peace in their snug metal jackets. Then, as if feeding them to a wild animal, he began to toss the bullets, one by one, into the fireplace. “Here’s one for the sickos. One for the cop killers.” Then two more. “For all the scumbag lawyers, corrupt politicos. You’re the worse. You keep it all going. You’re supposed to know better.” Without warning, the first slug hit meltdown and exploded, sending a shower of shattered brick from inside the chimney down onto the flaming logs. The second and third followed quickly as ash and smoke belched into the room. Early’s face remained impassive as he fingered the last two shells. He isolated one. “For all of you. Your crap. Not mine anymore.” The next eruption came moments later, kicking out a fireball onto his carpet. A chunk of metal whizzed past his ear and tore into the wallpaper on the opposite wall. The hallway outside filled with the sudden cacophony of rattling deadbolts sliding and doors flinging open and people yelling. Early ignored the commotion. Unaware of the silent tears on his cheek, he leaned closer to the pit of swirling sparks and ashes, the last bullet resting in the middle of his open hand. “And this one, James Early, is for you. You and all your ghosts. You’re broken. Don’t know how to fix yourself.” A furious knocking at his door startled him back to reality. “Hey! Hey in there! Early, you all right?” Disoriented, the detective looked around. Caustic smoke swirled around the room. Live coals glowed on the carpet and from the side of the armchair. He stared down at the bullet still cupped in his palm. It seemed out of focus. Surreal. The knocking came again, this time louder. But now the sounds were far away, in someone else’s bad movie. Placing the final bullet back into his revolver, he adjusted the chamber. When he needed it, it would be there. Slowly and deliberately, Early got up, went to his closet, and finished dressing. His plainclothes uniform never varied: white shirt, tie, black shoes. Beneath the grey sports jacket, his revolver and holster pressed against his ribs. Trench coat under his arm, he crawled through the window and stepped out onto the fire escape. The sudden shift was abrasive. A sharp April wind lashed at his face. A massive city roared below. Hands gripping the railing, he leaned out into the night. All around, the inky skyline peaked and plunged. Above, the stars shone like dull silver—cold, eternal nails hammered into the night sky. As the wail of a siren grew closer, Early descended, zigzagging his way down to Seventy-Eighth Street. One thing was obvious. Whatever forces were conspiring, whatever madness was overtaking him, it was about to hit critical mass. *** Excerpt from The Karma Factor by Thomas Lane. Copyright 2022 by Thomas Lane. Reproduced with permission from Thomas Lane. All rights reserved.
About Author Thomas Lane:
Born and raised in Connecticut, Thomas Lane is a multi-dimensional creative drawn to spaces where art, spirit, and social justice intersect. He is the author of The Artists’ Manifesto–– a tribute to the power of the Arts, its value to a society that has forgotten the precious nature of life.
In addition to a book of poetry, screenplays and paintings, he recently recorded a CD of his songs, entitled Hotel Earth under the stage name, Trakker.
Politically active since his teens, Thomas subsequently created The Helen Hudson Foundation, a charitable organization focused on social issues –– including homelessness, racism, and the environment. He currently lives with his wife in Rhode Island.
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Welcome to my stop in the virtual book tour for A Killer Whisky organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.
Author Susan Calder 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.
A Killer Whisky
By Susan Calder
Genre: Mystery
Synopsis
The 1918 influenza pandemic strikes Calgary, Alberta, Canada. The Great War rages overseas. While her husband fights in Europe, Katharine works in a doctor’s office to support her children and her brother, a wounded veteran. One night their neighbour suddenly takes sick and dies. The attending doctor concludes the man died from influenza, but Katharine suspects someone laced his whisky with a drug that mimics the deadly flu’s symptoms.
Katharine convinces the police to investigate. Worried about her brother’s involvement with a suspect, she delves into his secrets and comes to fear he’s connected to the murder. She grows disturbingly attracted to the investigating detective who returns her affections. He’s convinced her brother or someone else close to her is a killer and risks his career to pursue the crime. Katharine must discover the truth so she can move forward in a world that has changed forever.
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Enjoy this peek inside:
Detective Bertram Tanner strode into Calgary Police Headquarters, his steps lighter than they’d been this morning.
“How was your walk?” Julia, the receptionist, asked.
“Reflective.”
“I often think while walking too.”
It was too soon to tell his colleagues he might be leaving the police force. “How was your lunch hour?”
“Busy,” she said. “I tracked down balloons for my son’s birthday celebration tonight.”
“Which son?”
“The oldest. He’s ten years old. We decided to limit the party to family due to the flu. He’s disappointed his friends can’t come, but it will be lively with all of us there.”
Julia, a war widow with three children, lived with her parents—the police chief and his wife.
“I phoned my mother after lunch,” Julia said. “She went to every confectionary in town and managed to find all the children’s favourite sweets despite the sugar shortage.”
The chief’s wife was a ball of energy. A leader in the local suffragette and Prohibition movements, she claimed personal credit for Alberta women gaining the vote and the province going dry in 1916.
Bertram went into his office, closed the door, and draped his coat and hat on the coat tree. What work could he do this afternoon? Reports of the Spanish flu’s arrival on a train from Eastern Canada were keeping people away from the pool rooms and dance halls. Calgary hadn’t had a brawl or knifing in a week. Even the criminals seemed to be staying home.
He took out an old file, a robbery scheduled for trial next week. A man broke into a house in the Sunalta neighbourhood and stole $2.75. Disturbed by a noise, he fled through a window but foolishly returned an hour later. Caught red-handed by three residents, the robber could be sentenced to up to a year of hard labour. Bertram tried to organize his trial notes, but his thoughts kept shifting to his plan to leave the police force when the war ended and soldiers came home to replace him on the job. After fifteen minutes, he set the robbery file aside and decided to take a methodical approach to his lunch hour reflections about leaving.
He took out a clean sheet of paper, drew a vertical line down the middle, and titled each side “pro” and “con.”
~~~~~
About Author Susan Calder:
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Susan Calder lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. She is the author of five novels published by BWL Publishing Inc. A Deadly Fall, Ten Days in Summer, Winter’s Rage and Spring Into Danger are part of her Paula Savard Mystery Series. The books follow the adventures of Paula, a Calgary insurance adjuster who works with the police to solve insurance-related crimes. Susan’s standalone suspense novel, To Catch a Fox takes a troubled Calgary woman to Southern California on a quest to find her missing mother. In December 2024, BWL will release Susan’s first historical novel, A Killer Whisky. The story is set in 1918 Calgary and will be the 12th and final book of the BWL Canadian Historical Mystery Series. Susan has also published non-fiction articles. Her short stories and poems have won contests and appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines. She is a member of Crime Writers of Canada, Sisters in Crime, and the Writers’ Guild of Alberta.
Andi Wyndham has communicated with spirits since she was a kid. When a bone pendant carved into the likeness of a girl’s face calls to her at a gem show in Pennsylvania, she can’t resist buying it and a sister piece. When she discovers the girls are missing runaways and the pendants are made of human bone, Andi is drawn into a mystery that will force her to confront her gifts, her guilt, and the ghosts haunting her. Pendant Girls Mariah and Bennie urge Andi to find a man they call “Fisherman,” a master of disguise. Teaming up with a handsome private eye and a South Carolina sheriff, Andi must find the girls’ bodies and put their souls to rest, before the Fisherman casts his deadly net to trap Andi.
Published by: CamCat Books Publication Date: February 25, 2025 Number of Pages: 496 ISBN: 9780744307931 (ISBN10: 0744307937) Series: Andi Wyndham, Book 1
Do you enjoy the paranormal? Suspense? Thrillers? Well, this book has it all. Along with a strong protagonist in Andi and the supporting characters. And it provides plenty of feels. From kind of eerie to sad and funny.
I admit, the cover was what first caught my attention. It’s gorgeous. And once I got further into the book, the cover and title held more meaning for me.
The story alternates between more than one POV and more than one world. I easily followed the story and was always eager to read about who and what was happening where.
There’s mystery, suspense, a sprinkling of romance and great dialogue. Many of the characters won me over and a certain someone needed to be voted off the island, permanently. There was never a time where I felt like skipping ahead. The writing and plot kept my full attention. This was an excellent story and I’m crossing fingers and toes that this won’t be the last time I read about these characters and worlds.
5 STARS
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Enjoy this peek inside:
Ginkgo leaves drifted down like butterfly wings outside the gem show. They made a yellow carpet on the walkway to the boarding school’s gymnasium. Within the swirling leaves, Andi heard a voice. Hollow metallic vowels rustled like leaves in gutters. Consonants scratched and thumped like animals trapped in heating ducts. When the frantic skittering of syllables merged into words, a ghostly plea slipped into her consciousness. Trapped . . . help. “You’ll find your way to the Other Side,” Andi whispered. Some days, the spirits refused to leave her in peace. Turning off spirits’ voices was like trying to keep a snake in a bird cage. The Shadows had been with her since she was four. Her mother had sent those spirits to watch over her. But the voice she heard today was not the Shadows. They rarely spoke. Please . . . help. Andi opened the door. “I’m not the one to help you,” she told the young voice. “I attract bad men.” The ticket ladies took her money and stamped her hand. She scanned from one end of the gymnasium to the other. So many vendors. Where to start. Left past the fossils to a station called P&S Lapidary. They always had unique pieces. Please . . . ma’am. The whisper had a faint Southern lilt. “Aw come on. Hijack someone else’s head. Go see my ex-husband. Convince him to give me all his money.” Andi looked left and right to make sure no one had heard. No need to worry. Odds were good that at least one other person in the crowd talked to herself. Andi made her way through thirty stations. Through bargain-bound women rummaging in bins of clearance beads, through vendors taking orders to set stones, through miles of bead strands, she searched for the perfect happy, shiny piece. Twice around the gym, and that whispering voice drilled its way into her conscience again. Please . . . buy . . . me. Cripes! The urgency of that sweet young voice. She heaved a sigh. “Hope you’re not expensive. Where are you?” Her feet ached and the place was stifling hot. “Where?” Over here! She couldn’t see a damn thing through the shoppers lined up two people deep at the stations. Up on her toes, down, from foot to foot, sideways. A tiring, annoying dance. Andi shivered despite the stuffy gymnasium. Here! Easing her way through the shoppers, she peered into a glass display case. Malachite beads, a red coral branch necklace, two strands of ringed freshwater pearls, and one pendant with a cameo-style face etched in bone. The vendor with a bolo tie looked like her ninth grade geography teacher. “Let me open that for you. The face pendants are going fast. Only two left.” He lifted the hinged glass cover. Me! A loud whisper from the carved pendant with a girl’s face. Andi looked intently at it. Like most cameos, the face was a side profile. Tendrils of the girl’s curly hair escaped an upswept hairdo, framing her face. At first, she appeared to be asleep. Then the girl’s face turned and studied her too, eyes blinking as if she’d just awakened. Andi shivered. In the spirit world she’d inherited from her mother, voices whispered. Images in jewelry didn’t move. What now? She spoke silently. Subconscious to subconscious. Hurry, ma’am! Buy . . . A woman who reeked of Chanel No. 5 snatched the face pendant from the case. “Excuse me,” Andi said. “I came here to buy that piece. It called to me.” There now, she’d admitted she was crazy. She gave a lopsided grin and a shrug. “Please could I have it?” “Sorry, hon. I got here first.” A condescending glance at Andi, and the lady wrapped her bratwurst fingers around the pendant. “Not to worry, ladies,” the seller told them. “I have another like this.” He pushed the tablecloth aside, reached under the table, and pulled out a second pendant. “It’s stunning with Namibian Pietersite accents. I could let you have it for the same price.” No . . . me. An adamant voice. “I don’t want the other pendant,” Andi said. “I came here for the one in her hand.” At the next booth, a woman holding a jade jar stopped talking and stared at her. Andi blushed, knowing she sounded like a petulant child. Suddenly, Chanel Lady gasped. “Ouch! Awful thing cut me. It has sharp edges.” A thin line of blood welled on her finger, and she dropped the pendant as if it had bitten her. Andi caught it before it hit the floor. The silver bezel felt ice-cold. A young girl’s eyes gazed up at her and blinked. Thanks, ma’am. She stared at the pendant. Her mother had warned about spirits attaching to people. If spirits attached, she’d said, terrible things could happen. Chanel Lady cradled the darker pendant. Not a word was uttered from it. Maybe the tea-stained piece believed in being seen and not heard. Its bone face was younger. Pietersite in the top bezel had chatoyancy, a luminous quality. Thin wavy splotches of browns, blacks, reds, and yellows swirled through the dark stone like tiny ice crystals in frozen latte. “Yes. I like this one better. Excellent quality Pietersite,” Chanel Lady said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take her payment first.” The seller probably wanted to send the woman to another station before she started a fight with his customers. “No problem. Is this ivory?” Andi asked. Whether vendors called it mammoth bone or not, elephants didn’t deserve to be slaughtered for jewelry. “Absolutely not. Wouldn’t sell it if it was. Cow bone,” he assured her. A triumphant smirk aimed at Andi, and Chanel Lady made her way through the crowd. Subduing an impulse to give her the middle finger, Andi turned back to the pendant. She studied the heart-shaped face, turned it over and winced at the tiny price sticker. Was she insane? Andi couldn’t afford that; she’d lost her teaching job. “I’ll need your address and email.” The seller handed her a clipboard. She’d fought over it and won, no changing her mind now. While he charged her credit card, Andi filled out the information for his mailing list. Then she weaved through the shoppers to find a quiet corner by the concessions stand. What the hell. The pendant was a dose of credit card therapy. Unzipping the plastic sleeve, she lifted the piece by the bail. Two bezels set in silver. One disk held labradorite, a luminous blue stone with black veins, and in the second bezel, a face carved in bone. She shifted it in her palm, studying the details. Had light played with the image, making it look like the girl moved? It would warm at the touch of her skin. Once more around the gym, and she left the show, slogging through the field toward her car, wondering how a whispering girl had convinced her to buy a pricey pendant. Yet, she had a sense that something other than her credit card bill had changed. *** Excerpt from Bone Pendant Girls by Terry S. Friedman. Copyright 2024 by Terry S. Friedman. Reproduced with permission from Terry S. Friedman. All rights reserved.
About Author Terry Friedman:
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Terry Friedman is a writer and a rockhound. Her novel, BONE PENDANT GIRLS, a paranormal thriller, was published by CamCat January 30, 2024. Terry began her writing career freelancing for a small newspaper outside Philadelphia. While raising her daughters Jessica and Chelie in West Chester, PA, she taught English for decades and traveled abroad with students. Terry earned an M.F.A. from Wilkes University and also graduated from the FBI Citizens Academy. Thirteen of her fiction and non-fiction pieces have been published, and she co-edited Delaware Valley Mystery Writers’ short stories anthology. DEATH KNELL V. She is an award-winning author. In 2022 the Southeastern Writers Association awarded her first place in their writing contest for her humor piece, second place for BONE PENDANT GIRLS in a fiction category, and an honorable mention for THE BANSHEE’S WAIL, an unpublished Irish novel. She is a Killer Nashville Claymore Finalist in the Supernatural category. A Pennwriters Board member and a member of Sisters in Crime, she currently writes thrillers from coastal South Carolina. Terry has traveled the world from Fiji to Delphi and brings to her writing a solid respect for things that go bump in the night.
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This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Terry Friedman. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
When a single dad and his son’s teacher clash, sparks fly and it’s not only because his son is
neglecting his chores to read.
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A Family With the Cowboy
The Westons of Montana Book 1
by Elsa Winckler
Genre: Contemporary Small-Town Romance
Widowed rancher
Hayden Weston knows what it means to be responsible for his siblings, his
eight-year-old son, and the running of the huge family cattle ranch. Some even
call him a stern and grumpy taskmaster and they’re not exactly wrong. So when
Hayden discovers his son reading a storybook instead of doing chores, he calls
on Luke’s teacher to talk about priorities.
School teacher
Laura Anderson is new to Marietta, Montana, and has never—until now—been
reprimanded for encouraging a child to read. It doesn’t help that
sweet Luke’s father is the handsome cowboy with the amber eyes that she met in
Grey’s Saloon, or that she’s wildly attracted to him.
Sparks keep flying as their paths keep crossing, but Hayden is determined not to give in to
his incomprehensible need to have, hold, and protect Laura from any type of
harm. He’s the one who’ll hurt her if he lets her stray too close. He’s not ready to admit his feelings or commit to sharing his life with her.
I plan my stories with a pencil but once I start writing, it’s on my computer.
What made you want to become an author and do you feel it was the right decision?
I’ve always love writing essays while at school but I grew up in a small town where people like authors were from another planet! If it hadn’t been for a competition in a magazine looking for romance stories I don’t think I ever would’ve had the guts to try and send anything to a publisher. Now, of course, I can’t imagine any way of life.
A day in the life of the author?
I get up around seven in the morning, do all the usual chores and try to get in front of my computer by nine except for those days I do online Pilates classes when I only start at ten. I work until lunch time, make sure hubby has something to eat and then I write until about four when it’s time to think about dinner. I try not to write on weekends, but when deadlines are looming, I’ll write on Saturdays. I have also found I need about four weeks a year away from the computer to recharge.
Advice they would give new authors?
Reading books on how to write or attending workshops about writing is all well and good but if you want to be writer, you have to sit down and write. Write your story, not anyone else’s.
What are they currently reading?
I have just finished reading Midnight at the Blackbird Café and loved it. A beautiful story about family, loss, grief, regrets, forgiveness and second chances.
I have a stack of TNR and next is Still life by Louise Penny – a murder mystery.
What is your writing process? For instance do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first?
I find inspiration in different kind of things. Sometimes an article I’ve read, something I’ve heard or something that has happened to me. Creating the characters is usually the first step for me. What do they look like? (I have a Pinterest board for inspiration) and then comes the interesting part – who are they, where do they come from, what are their quirks and flaws and what do they want, why can’t they get it?
I usually send the publisher a proposal outlining the story and that is what I use. I don’t plan chapters, though. I have find as I write, I get to know the characters better and they usually tell me what they want to do next.
What are common traps for aspiring writers?
Don’t try and mimic someone else’s writing. Write your own story. You’re going to be someone’s favorite author!
Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?
Readers of romance novels have very definite expectations of any romance the pick up (as a study by Janice Radway has shown) and you as a writer has to deliver what they are looking for – a handsome hero, gorgeous heroine and a happy ending but it is also the duty of the author to find different and exciting ways to do that – for me, this is the fun part.
If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
Writing, like most things in life, is a process. It takes as long as it takes. Some stories bleed from your fingers on to the page, others is like giving birth – a long, and painful process. It doesn’t help to try and force it, though, you’ll only frustrate yourself. Trust the process, is one of my favorite mantras.
What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
The way men and women think, is different so writing from a man’s perspective can be challenging but I learn a lot from my husband, two sons and three grandsons! Men don’t think so much about the things that keep us women awake at night ☺
How long on average does it take you to write a book?
It depends on the story. I try to write two thousand words a day and I love those weeks I have nothing else going on and can just write. I have written a story in three weeks, but it usually takes me anything from four to six weeks.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
It hasn’t happened to me, yet. I do sometimes get stuck, but that is usually when something is wrong – there isn’t enough conflict or reason for a conflict, or I sometimes I need to change a name!
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I have been reading love stories for as long as I can remember and
when I ‘met’ the classic authors like Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell, Henry
James The Brontë sisters, etc. during my Honours studies, I was hooked for
life. I married my college boyfriend and soul mate and after 47 years, 3
interesting and wonderful children and 4 beautiful grandchildren, he still
makes me weak in the knees. We are fortunate to live in the picturesque little
seaside village of Betty’s Bay, South Africa with the ocean a block away and a
beautiful mountain right behind us. And although life so far has not always
been an easy ride, it has always been an exciting and interesting one! I like
the heroines in my stories to be beautiful, feisty, independent and headstrong.
And the heroes must be strong but possess a generous amount of sensitivity.
They are of course, also gorgeous! My stories typically incorporate the family
background of the characters to better understand where they come from and who
they are when we meet them in the story.
