April 2015 Bewitching Book Tours Magazine

Bewitching Book Tours Magazine Issue 34 April 2015

Bewitching Book Tours Magazine is a publication of Bewitching Book Tours and Bewitching Books.

Editor: Roxanne Rhoads Design Editor and Layout: Lisa McGeen Contributors include Bewitching Book Tours Authors and Tour Hosts learn more at www.bewitchingbooktours.blogspot.com Ad space rates are: $40 full page ad

$20 half page ad $10 quarter page ad You can subscribe to this magazine at http://issuu.com/bewitchingbooktours Š Copyright 2015 Stock images from www.123rf.com

Contents

The Carriage Feature To Read or Not to Read..That’s a Silly Question Why the West is Weird The Talented Feature Clarabelle’s Custom Creations Carolyn Wren Interview Tales of the Curious Cookbook Feature All Stories are Ghost Stories Sarai’s Fortune Feature Sometimes it Take a Village to Defeat Writer’s Block April Brookshire Interview Pirate's Alley Feature Earth Reclaimed Feature Dreamwalker Feature Naughty Nook Bite Me Feature Pinup Files

4 8 14 18 22 24 30 40 45 48 54 59 62 73 77 78 82

When Cultures Clash: Why I love Writing Historical Fiction My name is Jena Baxter and my newest novel, The Carriage, is set in Victorian, London. My first novel, Reflections, began in the Regency Era. I had already written a couple of fantasy in motion stories, but while doing research on Hans Christian Anderson’s Little Matchgirl, I found some interesting things to ponder.

Burial customs were pretty out there. The dying person takes their last breath and the first thing the servant or family does is stop the clock. Then they covered the mirrors and windows so the deceased couldn’t get trapped in them on their way out, and then placed a black wreath on the door so the world would know they were mourning.

I have a vivid imagination so all I could see was some poor soul banging on the back of the mirror yelling, ‘Let me out. I took a wrong turn. This isn’t funny Uncle.’ I know its poor humor but my brain works that way. Don’t even get me started on the hired mourners following the funeral procession to the graveyard. My mind went wild with that one.

I love humor and my favorite emotion is laughter in sadness. Check out the end of Steel Magnolias if you’re not sure what I’m talking about. Sally Field does an awesome job in that movie. Be sure and get out a box of tissues first, but I’m digressing. After letting my mind go wild with the spirit stuck in the mirror, Reflections was born, and while it does have its humorous moments, the setting is very different.

Fast forward to my newest novel, The Carriage. I was planning a trip we never took to New York, and thinking about taking a carriage ride through Central Park. While I don’t know much about the carriages, they have been there an incredibly long time. I saw a historical photo and that was all it took for my mind to flip to the Victorian Era. I was supposed to be working on a YA/NA contemporary romance based in New York.

Alexis came into existence, and I made her face the unfriendly truths of the era. You should see her face when a servant calls Ezra, the Master. Are you laughing yet? Well, she gives him a run for his money because Alexis won’t be calling any man, Master. Ezra is a shipyard owner and a man on the cutting edge of the age. He doesn’t understand Alexis, but she brings laughter and joy to his dark, broken heart.

I’ve often said, I love cultures whether it’s a bygone era, or something I create myself, which is something you’ll see in my next story. But using modern women, and a young man as well in Reflections, shows the contrast by allowing us to see what the culture was like a little closer.

Alexis found she couldn’t battle the era she was trapped in, she had to conform to it because it wasn’t going to conform to her. Brayden in Reflections found the same, even though he never lived in any age but his own.

Culture is steeped in our DNA, and while we can change opinions and emotions over time, it will always be a part of who we are.

The Carriage Jena Baxter Genre: YA, Paranormal Romance Publisher: Jena Baxter Books Date of Publication: February 16th, 15 ISBN: 978-0-9911677-2-2 ASIN: B00TOQNODQ Number of pages: 214 Word Count: 52,313 Cover Artist: Consuelo Parra Model: Amber Ornelas Book Description: A teenage girl enters a carriage in Central Park and disembarks in Victorian, England.

Cursed by her sister Brooke, Alexis Powell arrives in the Victorian Era where she meets Ezra, who was recently murdered by an assassin his brother Amos hired. Now a supernatural creature, Ezra sees into Alexis’ mind with a touch and Intrigued by her memories, offers his help only to be rebuffed for his kindness.

Alexis runs away, but Ezra is unable to shake off what he saw. He follows her through the streets of London.

Vulnerable after the death of his Father, his brother’s harassment, and Alexis’ many rejections, Ezra decides to stop following her. Alexis is unable to find work or food. Facing starvation, she steals a tomato and Ezra finds her facing the local magistrate and an angry mob. He pays for her freedom.

Finally accepting the help Ezra offers, Alexis moves into the manor he shares with his brother. Romance blossoms but the bond between Ezra and Amos is worse than Alexis’ relationship with Brooke.

While Ezra and Alexis search for a way to send her home, Amos looks for a way to kill them.

Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/-2P1NTDmQww Available at Amazon

Excerpt: Somehow I was certain I was no longer in New York. The streets were cobblestone, and the buildings wood and brick. A lot of them were broken down, old and shabby. The alleys were filthy and smelled like shit. Exhausted, I looked for a place to hide but didn’t know where to go. When I couldn’t

move another muscle, I hid behind a wooden staircase with my back against the wall and fought not to jump at every sound.

I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and didn’t know how long I’d slept, but it looked close to midmorning when I opened my eyes and looked around.

The women walking by were wearing long, full dresses, and big feathered hats. The men’s pants were more form fitting, not the jeans they usually wear. Some of the children running around were barefoot and downright filthy, looking as if they had been rolling in mud or playing with charcoal. I cringed when I saw a boy carrying a rat by the tail. Everything was straight out of a Dickens novel. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see little Dorrit, or Ebenezer Scrooge waltz by any minute now. I rubbed my nose with the palm of my hand. What the hell was I going to do?

This obviously wasn’t real, so I must have fallen in with a role playing community of some sort. My mother and father used to play dungeons and dragons. Maybe this was the same thing, but in the extreme.

Something slammed into my back. I screamed and turned at the sound of a woman yelling at me. The broom in her hand whooshed down again, just missing my face.

“Whoa. Hey, stop!”

What was wrong with these people? I couldn’t understand a word she said, so I ran. She chased me, swinging the broom until I left the alley.

I stopped to catch my breath, smoothed my clothes, and approached a woman in a long brown dress with a white bonnet and black boots. She stared at me like I was some sort of freak. Uh ... she was the freak, not me. Maybe the men would be friendlier, but not one of them would stop. Then I saw the man that crashed into me yesterday across the road. He looked a little different, wearing a brown suit, and an odd piece of material similar to a scarf around his neck, with a top hat. He was actually still attractive in the weird clothes. Dodging carts and vendors, I made a bee-line for him. At least he wouldn’t chase me with a broom.

About the Author:

Jena Baxter has always loved history and time travel. She liked to read, and often wrote poetry as a stress inhibitor while growing up. But like other writers, she dreamed of writing a novel. So she enrolled at the UCLA Writer's Extension, to gain the confidence and skill to move forward.

Today Jena has a YA Fantasy novel, as well as a YA Paranormal Romance novel online and in print.

www.jenabaxter.com

http://jenabaxterbooks.blogspot.com/

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jenabaxterbooks

https://www.facebook.com/jenabaxterbooks

https://twitter.com/@jenabaxterbooks

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8103907.Jena_Baxter

http://www.amazon.com/Jena-Baxter/e/B00M4YF352

To Read or Not to Read… That’s a Silly Question As I was contemplating what to write for this blog post, I asked a group of my bookish friends what kinds of topics might interest them. They had lots of great suggestions, but one question stood out to me as it’s not only one I’ve been asked before, but it’s also one that strikes a bit of fear in my heart. The question is this: Do you find that, as a writer, you’re less able to simply enjoy books now? In other words, am I constantly assessing the works of other authors for what I might have done differently if I’d been the one writing them?

The answer to that is twofold. Sometimes I do find myself mentally editing, wondering at a character’s motivation for their behavior during a pivotal scene or sometimes shaking my head over paragraphs of description inserted between lines of dialogue, so that the reader totally forgets who is saying what. It’s inevitable. After you’ve written so many books yourself, it’s nearly impossible to read without a critical eye.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading just as much as I always have. And some writers are such skilled storytellers, their characters so compelling, that the critical little voice in my head that says: this scene might have worked better from the antagonist’s point of view is completely drowned out by my inner squeals of excitement because the book is just So. Darned. Good.

That’s not to say that I haven’t heard some writers say that reading has lost its luster, so to speak. They can’t enjoy books the way they once could. That’s one reason this question disturbed me. But whether I simply haven’t been writing long enough for this to be a problem, or perhaps my inner critic isn’t quite as, well, critical as she could be, reading is still my go-to escape. Books provide the kind of… hope, I guess you could say, that isn’t possible to explain to non-readers. The world of fiction is a world of limitless possibilities, unrestrained by the physical, emotional and intellectual boundaries of our day-to-day existence.

Readers are almost inevitably dreamers, which is not such a bad thing to be. In the words of Lemony Snicket: “Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them.”

If you’re looking for me, I’ll be curled up on the porch swing, reading.

Circumstantial Evidence The Sweetwater Trilogy Book 3 Lisa Clark O’Neill Genre: Romantic suspense

Date of Publication: February 26, 2015 ISBN: 1508605998

ASIN: B00U1FH2L4

Number of pages: 475 Word Count: 95,000 Cover Artist: Brian Koch

Book Description: As Chief of Police in Sweetwater, South Carolina, Will Hawbaker has seen more than his share of violent crime. But none of it has prepared him for the aftereffects of a young boy dead at the hand of his mother’s boyfriend. And when the suspected killer turns up dead himself, it raises more questions. Could this crime which has already shaken the town be even more sinister than it appears?

Camellia Abernathy has seen her own share of heartache following the violent death of the husband she only thought she knew. In returning to Sweetwater, her childhood home, Cam hopes to pick up the pieces of a shattered life for both herself and her young son. One piece of that life includes Will Hawbaker, the man who not only launched the investigation which uncovered her husband’s double life, but with whom she’s been in love since they were teens.

A rapid fire series of events turns both Cam and Will’s lives upside down, drawing them together even as they find themselves in the crosshairs of a killer.

Available at Amazon BN

Smashwords

Excerpt: The fog was so thick you could slice it with a knife and serve it up a la mode.

Will Hawbaker scrambled over fallen logs, wading through a sea of saw palmettoes as deep as his waist.

The maritime forest was nearly impenetrable, with boggy patches of ground to catch the unwary in its earthen grip, sucking the boots right off your feet if you weren’t careful.

Will paused, shining his flashlight around, the beam a feeble weapon against the moonless night. It was hours yet until daybreak, when the sun would burn off the fog like the wispy vestiges of a bad dream.

And this was definitely a bad dream. One Will wished he could wake up from.

Even at this time of night the air felt like a slow cooker, baking him from the inside out. Sweat rolled down his temples, his back, causing his shirt to cling and his hair to drip salty tears on the fanned leaves of the nearest palmetto. Mosquitoes droned just outside the protective zone of the repellent he’d applied, black clouds swirling through the white.

Nearby, an owl hooted.

This was an uncomfortable environment for an adult, even one who was accustomed to putting himself in danger.

For a child, it had to be terrifying.

“Sam!” Will called out, listening as his voice seemed to be absorbed by the soup-like air.

He heard barking, but couldn’t tell if it was coming closer to him or moving away. The team from the

Sheriff’s Department with the bloodhounds had set out at the same time he had, but they’d all headed in different directions.

They had a lot of forest to cover, and not a lot of time. The twenty-four hour window, that critical time after an abduction, was closing fast.

Hearing something – had that been a whimper? – off to his left, Will turned the flashlight that direction.

“Sam?” Even though no response was forthcoming, Will began moving toward the sound. If the child was hurt, he may not be able to answer. If he was frightened – and why the hell wouldn’t he be? – he may be too terrified to make his hiding spot known.

“Sam!” Will called as he shoved a small sapling out of his way. “I know you must be scared, buddy, but I’m here to help you.”

And because the kid probably didn’t believe jack shit coming from adults right now, especially adults he was supposed to be able to trust, Will didn’t bother to mention anything about being a cop. That wasn’t quite the vote of confidence it once was, anyway. Better to try something on the boy’s level.

“I hear you like dogs,” he said, his voice radiating calm even as he viciously kicked at a vine that wanted to tangle him up in its thorny grip. “Do you hear the dogs barking? They’re looking for you, too.”

Fingers of fog tickled the back of Will’s neck, teasingly cool against his overheated flesh.

Mother Nature was definitely female, Will thought sourly. Soothing and confounding at the same time.

“I like dogs,” Will said conversationally, because what the hell. If nothing else, maybe the boy would get sick of hearing him yapping and tell him to shut up. “You hear those bloodhounds barking? They’re out here looking for you, too. Kind of like Timmy and Lassie.” Will paused, wondering if the kid even knew who that was. Given that this was the age of animated sponges living in undersea pineapples, probably not.

“That was an old show I used to watch, about this awesome collie that was always saving this kid Timmy’s butt. I thought it would be cool to have a dog that could get help when you did something dumb like fall down a well, but I couldn’t have one when I was a kid. My mom didn’t want one. She thought it would mess up the house and was too much responsibility.”

His mother didn’t particularly want him or his siblings either, for much the same reason. But that was beside the point.

“Your mom told me that you’ve been asking for a dog.” Will stopped, shone his flashlight toward the base of the enormous oak tree off to the right. Was that a flash of red he’d just seen?

“But that you two had been debating about that responsibility thing, too. And that line about a boy who can’t even pick up after himself not being responsible enough to take care of a dog? I heard that one too, and it sucks. But the thing is, your mom is kind of right. I think she’s willing to give you a chance though. She told me that when you get back home, safe and sound, she’s taking you to the pound, first thing.”

“Liar!”

Will froze. It had been the merest whisper of sound, ephemeral as the fog itself. He half thought it was wishful thinking on his part.

“Now, I’ve got no reason to pull your leg about that, son. Dogs are a pretty serious business. A lot more serious than putting away your Legos and getting your dirty clothes in the hamper. You’ve got to make sure you feed them and water them and take them for walks… but maybe you’re not ready for all that responsibility.”

“Am too!”

That was definitely no figment of his imagination.

Covering his relief with a look of exasperation, Will followed the voice with the beam of his flashlight.

Nine-year-old Sam Bryant peered back at him from one of the branches of the oak tree.

“Pretty good climber, are you?”

The kid looked terrified, but defiant. “Yes. But my mom…” his voice trembled on the word “tells me that I’m going to fall and break my head.”

“Your head looks pretty hard to me.”

“She’s dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“He…” the kid’s whole lower face started to quiver. “He said my mom was dead. So you’re lying about the dog.”

Will swallowed the curse he wanted to say, but silently wished all the seven plagues to be visited upon the man in question. Hopefully while he was naked. And staked out on a fire ant mound. Why the hell would he say such a thing?

“He lied,” Will told the boy. “He’s the liar.”

He was Matthew Hastings, Sam Bryant’s mother’s boyfriend. After a particularly nasty argument over Hastings’ belief that Sam’s mom was coddling him too much because she was squeamish about Sam learning to hunt, Hastings decided to take the kid out into the woods anyway while his mom was at work. He’d abandoned him there, with no food, no water, and little hope of finding his way out. Apparently this was meant as an illustration of the importance of developing survival skills.

Luckily they’d managed to track Hastings car to this area, a stretch of uninhabited woodland used primarily for a hunting club.

Hastings seemed to have abandoned his car along with the boy, which meant he was in the wind somewhere. But the important thing was that they’d found Sam, alive and in one piece.

At least he looked to be in one piece.

“Sam, I need you to listen to me, okay? Your mom is fine. She’s worried sick, but she’s fine. But I need to know if you’re hurt anywhere.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I’ll just bet.” The kid had been alone in the woods for almost eighteen hours. Given the fact that it was August in South Carolina, dehydration was a given. Will pulled a bottle out of the pocket of his cargo pants.

“Lucky for you I brought some water with me. Now, I have to contact the other people who are looking for you, so that everyone knows you’re okay. Can you climb down from there, or do you need help?”

“I can do it.”

“Good man.” But because Will didn’t want to take any chances, he moved closer to the base of the tree even as he thumbed on his radio. “Found him,” he said, and gave his approximate coordinates. “I’ll give you a status report on his condition just as soon as I have a chance to check him out.”

Fog swirled, obscuring his view of the boy, the tree, and Will moved his flashlight around in an attempt to see through it. “Sam?” he said, but received no answer.

“Sam?” he said again. “Be careful climbing down.” head.

That would be just what they needed at this point, for the kid to fall out of the tree and actually break his Concern niggled. “Sam? Maybe you should just stay put, buddy, and let me help you.”

Will closed the final distance to the tree, but he tripped over an exposed root near the base and nearly went sprawling. spond.

“Some help I am,” he muttered. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” he called out. But still the boy didn’t re-

“Sam?” Will aimed his flashlight toward the branch of the tree where he’d last seen the kid sitting. Empty. He started moving the beam lower.

“Sam!” he said one more time when he saw no sign of the boy on any of the branches. The nerves that had so recently calmed began to jump beneath his skin. Shit. Had the boy fallen? He shone his flashlight at the ground, the boiling fog making it nearly impossible to distinguish shapes, around the side, back toward that root he’d tripped – “Oh Jesus. Oh no.” Will stumbled the two steps that would take him to where the boy lay, dropping down on his knees beside him. How could he have fallen without Will hearing a thing?

“Sam?” Will reached out, turned the boy over.

And felt the blood drain out of his head.

The boy hadn’t fallen. He’d been shot.

And he’d been dead for quite some time.

About the Author: One fine day in the not-too-distant past, Lisa Clark O'Neill left Wittenberg University with a BA in English, which she promptly neglected. After working as an interior designer, decorative artist, and Montessori art teacher (there may have been a BA in art as well,) she finally settled into the role of mother to two very fine children.

However, two years of doing the stay-at-home-mom brain cell melt drove her to pull out a pen and one of her old college notebooks.

That turned into six manuscripts.

Lisa spent subsequent years avoiding housework by burying her nose in just about every romance novel she could get her hands on, after completely falling in love with the genre.

Her own work falls into the romantic suspense sub-genre, with strong comedic undertones.

Lisa currently lives in the Atlanta area with her family, her dog, her cat and her daughter's pet rabbit. When she isn't attempting to keep the rabbit from eating the woodwork, she's hard at work on her next novel. http://lisaclarkoneill.com/

Why the West is Weird

By Laura Bickle The West is a weird place.

There’s a lot of mythology about the Wild West that sinks into storytelling. The mysterious stranger comes to town, and whispers follow the stranger’s arrival. Cattle barons gaze out on broad, uninhabited vistas. A guy with a badge opposes a man in black. There are tense standoffs with guns, and nobody knows who’s the fastest draw until blood spills in the street. The Wild West is an iconic legendary framework, and mysterious all on its own.

I wanted to add to that mystery, to make it even weirder.

DARK ALCHEMY begins with a stranger coming to town. Petra Dee is a geologist, running away from her own personal demons, searching for her father who disappeared in the sleepy town of Temperance a decade ago. She’s determined to explain all the weirdness she encounters with a scientist’s detachment, refusing to believe the supernatural events unfolding around her.

She acquires a spirit guide – a coyote who’s dug up a mysterious golden compass and hangs around her trailer for the opportunity to pick through her groceries. The compass is a relic from the town’s gold rush days, when Temperance was flush with gold conjured by an alchemist. The town’s legacy has endured through a descendent of the original alchemist…but instead of conjuring gold, Stroud cooks meth. Stroud commands an army of strung-out minions who carry out his will in exchange for his newest drug, the Elixir. And Stroud wants what Petra has – the golden artifact from his great-great grandfather with its own magical powers.

Stroud’s at war with Sal Rutherford, the local cattle baron. Rutherford runs the cops like he runs the ranch, with practiced ruthlessness. His secret police are the Hanged Men, a silent group of undead ranch hands who are always in the company of raven familiars. Gabe, a man in a black hat, is the leader of the Hanged Men, ever-alert for an opportunity to overthrow Rutherford and gain control of the source of the Hanged Men’s power: the Alchemical Tree of Life.

Petra has been advised by the welcome wagon – a Yellowstone forest ranger wearing a shiny star badge that he takes very seriously – to get some guns. As she picks up a set of antique pistols, she finds herself drawing down on the Hanged Men, dodging meth heads, and trying to pick apart the mystery of grotesquely calcinated bodies turning up in Temperance and the nearby Yellowstone Park.

Something unearthly has gotten loose, and Petra will have to muster all her scientific training and all

her courage in order to stop it. That is, when her presumed-dead father isn’t trying to communicate from the afterworld through her truck radio.

The West is weird. And I want to see how much weirder it can get. I hope you’ll join me.

Dark Alchemy Laura Bickle On-sale: 3/24 ISBN: 9780062389862

Stephen King’s The Gunslinger meets Breaking Bad in Laura Bickle’s novel Dark Alchemy.

Book Description: Some secrets are better left buried…

Geologist Petra Dee arrives in Wyoming looking for clues to her father’s disappearance years before. What she finds instead is Temperance, a dying Western town with a gold rush past and a meth-infested present.

But under the town’s dust and quiet, an old power is shifting. When bodies start turning up - desiccated and twisted skeletons that Petra can’t scientifically explain - her investiga-

tions land her in the middle of a covert war between the town’s most powerful interests. Petra’s father wasn’t the only one searching for the alchemical secrets of Temperance, and those still looking are now ready to kill.

Armed with nothing but shaky alliances, a pair of antique guns, and a relic she doesn’t understand, the only thing Petra knows for sure is that she and her coyote sidekick are going to have to move fast, or die next.

Amazon

BN Google Books

Available at HarperCollins

About the Author: Laura Bickle grew up in rural Ohio, reading entirely too many comic books out loud to her favorite Wonder Woman doll. After graduating with an MA in Sociology – Criminology from Ohio State University and an MLIS in Library Science from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, she patrolled the stacks at the public library and worked with data systems in criminal justice. She now dreams up stories about the monsters under the stairs, also writing contemporary fantasy novels under the name Alayna Williams.

Her work has been included in the ALA’s Amelia Bloomer Project 2013 reading list and the State Library of Ohio’s Choose to Read Ohio reading list for 2015-2016. THE HALLOWED ONES and THE OUTSIDE are her latest young adult novels. www.laurabickle.com https://twitter.com/Laura_Bickle

https://www.facebook.com/Author.Laura.Bickle

Excerpt She led me to the other side of the cafeteria where a wall separated us from everyone else. We made our way towards two separate tables. Ricky was sitting at a table by himself, and there were four other people sitting at the other table. I was getting ready to walk in when Flora stopped me.

“You see them four at that table.” She pointed to all of them.

“Yes.” “That’s Montigo.” She pointed to a guy with skin the color of melted chocolate, and brown eyes. He was tall like Ricky and had black dreads in his hair. “His girlfriend is Tess.” She pointed to a white chick that had red hair, green eyes and freckled skin. “She’s a hot head. That’s Lanisha over there.” She rolled her eyes at her. She pointed to this light skin black chick with crazy brownish green eyes and brown hair. “Last but not least, there’s Simon, who is the nicest of the group, if you ask me.”

She pointed to this white guy. He had pretty blue eyes and blond hair.

“What are their talents?” She was about to walk in, but I stopped her.

“Montigo is water, Tess is fire, Lanisha is air, and Simon is earth.” We walked in the room, and Flora greeted everyone at the table before we sat down.

“Why are you guys pointing at people?”

“I was filling her in on whose who.”

“Oh.” Ricky eyed my plate.

“Are you going to eat all that?” Ricky asked me.

“No, if you want something, you can have it.” His hand went directly to the chocolate chip cookies. I stopped him. “Yeah, anything, but those.” Then his hand went for the peach pie. I had to stop him once again. Flora started laughing.

“Let me clarify. You can have anything but the sweets.”

“Looks like someone has a sweet tooth,” Flora said.

“So where’s Devon at?” Flora asked Ricky.

“I don’t know. What do I look like his keeper?”

“Don’t start, I just asked a simple question, that’s it.” They got into an argument. I ate my nachos and realized something was missing. Where was my hot sauce? I looked around and saw it was sitting on the farthest table against the wall with the rest of the condiments.

As I grabbed the bottle, I heard someone whistling. I ignored it until I realized they were whistling at me and not that, ‘Oh you’re fine whistle’, it was that come here, whistle. I turned and saw who it was, Montigo. I rolled my eyes. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have to use his words. All of a sudden, I felt something wet hit me on my but almost like a belt. I jumped and dropped the hot sauce on the floor. I turned around to touch my pants to make sure I didn’t feel anything, and sure enough there was a wet spot there. I looked at Montigo, as he sung a water lasso around his head.

“Keep your hands and other objects to yourself.”

“This is what happens when you ignore me hon, so tell me what are you going to do about it.” I remained quiet. “Nothing, just like I thought.” He threw the water lasso at my arm, and it left a wet whelp there.

“I already told you to stop,” I said.

“Or what?” I noticed Flora and Ricky looking at us now.

“Montigo stop, it’s not funny,” Flora said.

“Mind your business Flora.” She gave him the finger. Montigo looked at me again and once again threw the water lasso. This time I caught it and slowed down my breathing, and it froze. When I let go of it, icicles formed going everywhere in the cafeteria. One almost hit him in his face, but his girlfriend Tess, held up her hand just in time. She created a fire wall melting the ice dagger.

Tess rose up, but Montigo raised his hand, and she sat back down. Instead, he got up.

“Finally your group is complete.” He said eyeing me up and down. “So you think you’re big and bad, just because you can make a few icicles?” He laughed not waiting for me to answer. “I think you need to be taught a lesson.” I noticed everyone’s cups beginning to shake. He raised both of his hands, now had two water lassos. He threw one at me, and I mentally prepared myself to grab it, but at the last second, someone stepped in front of me. I realized it was Devon. The water was melting off his body.

“Still picking on people smaller than you?” Devon said.

“Yeah and you’re still poking your nose in other people’s business.”

“If you stop starting shit, then I wouldn’t have too.”

“What makes you think I started it?”

“Who else would it be?” Montigo stepped closer to Devon.

“Again what does this have to do with you?”

Suddenly a line of fire appeared separating Montigo from Devon. Tess slowly, but gracefully got up.

“That’s enough for tonight boys.” Her voice sounded like she was older than what she appeared to be. “Wouldn’t want Devon killing you over his little equal.”

She looked at me. “Word of advice, next time he speaks to you, just answer him.” I smiled at her.

“The last time I checked, he isn’t anyone of importance, and I’ll speak when I want to. Not a moment sooner than that.” Then I mimicked her. “Word of advice, whistling at someone isn’t the right way to get their attention. I’m not a dog.” She looked at me and twirled her hair around her finger. I bent down to wipe the hot sauce I spilled. I felt something hot on my back, and I turned around to see the fireball coming at me. I rose my hand, slowed my breathing, and it froze, it was now a big ball of ice. It fell on the floor not shattering. I looked at Tess, who was now smirking at me. I noticed Devon looking at us, probably wondering if he needed to intervene. He didn’t, I could handle it on my own.

“I don’t know what’s more pathetic, you trying to attack me when my back is turned or you attacking me and me defending myself, when I just find out today that I had a talent.”

The Talented Desy Smith Genre: Young Adult Fantasy Romance Fiction Publisher: Floebe Publishing Date of Publication: January 30, 2015 ISBN: 9781507799291 ASIN: B00SXOLV80

Number of pages: 197 Word Count: 46,170 Book Description: At age 17, Carmel founds herself in a mental institution thanks to an ice dagger, and a woman who apparently isn't human. After being rescued and arriving at the H.o.T, House of Talents. A house where no one is entirely human. She learns that she's Talented and has the ability to control Water and Ice. At the H.o.T, Carmel learns to control her Talent, makes new friends, a few enemies, and begins to fall head over heels for a handsome guy. Who has a few secrets of his own. Carmel begins to realize that many people want her dead because of who she is. However she has no idea why. Can she figure it out or will she die. Look inside to find out.

Available at Amazon and BN About the Author: Desy Smith was born and raised in Dallas, Texas. She wrote her first book when she was thirteen years old, because she ran out of books to read inside her home. She loves reading books as much as she loves writing her own. Desiree also loves food and sweets, if she’s not reading, she’s probably eating a cupcake or two.

She published her first book The Talented under a publishing company she started Floebe Publishing. Desy writes to provide an escape for anyone who wants to live in a fantasy world, and not worry about the trouble of everyday life. She also writes to inspire. This is Desy’s first novel, and she plans to release the second part of The Talented series during late summer.

The Talented will be a five part series. Currently she is working on another story, which she hopes to release in the fall.

Website: http://desysmith.wix.com/desysmith

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/ show/25130702-the-talented Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authordesysmith

Instagram: Author_Desydiva23

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Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre?

I wrote my first book in 2009 with no background in writing and no clue what I was doing.

That story was a romantic suspense novella called Diplomat’s Daughter and it went on to win the 2012 RWA novella of the year. I figured I must be doing something right, so I just kept on going.

What inspired you to write this book?

I enjoy expanding my writing horizons. Empathy is my first full length novel featuring multiple characters and intercepting plotlines. After writing seven contemporary romantic suspense novels, I decided to give myself a bit of a challenge.

Please tell us about your latest release.

Empathy is the first book in a Murder Mystery Urban Fantasy called Emotional Chains. It features three families who have the ability to feel emotions as a physical sense.

Do you have a special formula for creating characters' names? Do you try to match a name with a certain meaning to attributes of the character or do you search for names popular in certain time periods or regions?

That’s a very good question. Mainly I try to visualize a character and imagine someone calling their name. In this book we have Oliver Lord who is very quiet and introspective. He needed a solid almost old fashioned name, nothing too flashy. Zoe Daniels is an artist, a sculptor, so her name needed to be slightly more unusual, something that hint at as artistic temperament.

Was one of your characters more challenging to write than another?

Oliver holds all of his thoughts and feelings inside, but deep down he’s very passionate. Introducing his character traits to the reader at the same time the heroine found them out was quite a challenge.

Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others?

Meredith Baron was wonderful to write. I wanted someone who embraced her empathic abilities and had no qualms or guilt about using them. Writing a character who is so free, so strong willed and so stubborn was great fun, especially when I gave her an equally stubborn hero to butt heads with.

Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a character sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write?

My characters take over my fingers. I have no idea what they’re going to do or say until the words appear on the page. Sometimes I think they are in charge and I’m just the interpreter.

What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?

The empaths can inhabit the dream world so I wanted to do a love scene with a difference.

The result is very interesting.

What is the most interesting thing you have physically done for book related research purposes?

There’s a scene in my Romantic Series, The Protectors where a diminutive female covert operative is trying to free a hostage who was chained in a room. She had to climb up his body to reach the chains above his head. I made my husband kneel on the floor to make sure my written actions were accurate. Thank goodness no one saw us.

With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones?

There will be some recap in Perception, the sequel to Empathy, so as not to alienate new readers, but the books will have more impact if read as a series.

Do any of your characters have similar characteristics of yourself in them and what are they?

As much as I would love to be a striking, tall redhead with empathic abilities like Meredith Baron, I’m afraid all my characters are pure fiction. I do relate to Zoe Daniels who is very tactile and needs to offer comfort to her friends with hugs…I’m a hugger too.

Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? How do you deal with it?

Sometimes I wish I did suffer from writers block. My inner muse is an insomniac who thinks 3am is the ideal time to create that perfect chapter. The only time I got brain fade was in the middle of last summer. Western Australia has scorching summers and my air conditioner needed fixing. It was tricky trying to be creative when it was 100 degrees outside and about 90 de-

grees in my office.

Do you have any weird writing quirks or rituals?

Now I want to think up something really exotic or unusual, but my sole writing quirk consists of not listening to music when I write. I tend to sing along which is bad for my productivity.

Do you write in different genres?

My debut published series was Contemporary Romantic Fiction, which is something I’ve always enjoyed reading. But it wasn’t long before my love of everything Paranormal started to take over my writing. I even ventured into the fun world of erotica with a holiday story about a plucky heroine and two regency ghosts living in a quaint English cottage.

Do you find it difficult to write in multiple genres?

Not at all. I don’t even think about a specific genre when I start a story. It’s only when I’ve finished that I have to sit back and wonder how to label it.

When did you consider yourself a writer?

When I finished my very first story I remember thinking, wow, did I just do that? When I won my first writing trophy I wondered if maybe this wasn’t some sort of surreal dream. But, when I held my first publishing contract in my hand, that’s when I began to think of myself as an actual writer.

What are your guilty pleasures in life?

Eating chocolate for breakfast. Binge watching dvds of Star Trek and Buffy. Standing in the rain, even when people look at me like I’m crazy. And buying shoes. I have a real weakness for shoes.

Other than writing, what are some of your interests, hobbies or passions in life?

I love field archery. It’s like a more interesting version of golf. A long walk followed by firing an arrow into a distant target.

What was the last amazing book you read?

JR Wards Brotherhood of the Black Dagger books always grab me and hold me captive until the very last page. I just re-read the last two books in the series because the next one has just been released.

Where is your favorite place to read? Do you have a cozy corner or special reading spot?

Curled up in the corner of my comfy sofa with a cup of tea and a bar of chocolate.

What can readers expect next from you?

Perception, the next book in the Emotional Chains series is due out in August so I’m working hard on polishing the manuscript at the moment. After that, I have an outline for a brand new Contemporary Romantic Suspense series, and also another paranormal series. Maybe I’ll flip a coin to see what comes first, or maybe I’ll try to do them all at once.

Where can readers find you on the web?

My web page is www.carolynwren.com and I love to chat to readers.

Would you like to leave readers with a little teaser or excerpt from the book?

“Please just stop. Don’t come any closer.” Her back hit the wall of a kiosk. There was nowhere else she could go. One breath, one brick. Control slipped further, racing away from her battered, desperate mind. A third person touched their face, gasping at the blood on their fingers.

“Stop, stop.” Kira’s words dissolved into sobs, and the fragile brick wall surrounding her abilities shattered into a thousand pieces.

Empathy Emotional Chains Book 1 Carolyn Wren Genre: Urban Fantasy Publisher: Secret Cravings Publishing Date of Publication: 23rd March 2015 ISBN: 978-1-63105-537-9 Number of pages: 229 Word Count: 74,918 Cover Artist: Dawne Dominique

Book Description: What if you could sense the emotions of everyone around you? What if you fell in love with someone you’d never even met?

Oliver Lord belongs to one of three special families, empaths who feel emotions as a physical sense. Quiet and reserved, and accustomed to keeping his abilities hidden, Oliver is drawn inexorably to a woman he’s never met. The woman who made his brother’s last year of life so happy.

When Zoe Daniels, talented sculptor, loses her fiancé before their wedding, she can’t imagine finding love again, until she meets Jasper’s unknown brother, a man so different, yet so achingly familiar to the man she adored. What is Oliver’s secret, and why is he so determined to keep her at arm’s length?

A violent kidnapping and murder forces the empaths from the shadows to seek justice for one of their own. Oliver turns to Zoe, needing her comfort and love. Can she accept him for who he is?

Oliver and two powerful empathic friends need to track down the kidnappers before they strike again, but how do you solve a murder, when your only clue is emotion?

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/BH-4RtXcE3k Available at Secret Cravings ARe Amazon BN

Excerpt She sighed and leaned forward. “I’m about to tell you something. I would appreciate it if you’d listen with an open mind, because it’s going to shock you.”

Mike mirrored her position, leaning his elbows on the table. “Very little shocks me these days, Miss Baron.”

“I prefer Meredith, or Merri.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “If you have information on this case, I need to hear it.”

She fiddled with the spoon from her chocolate. The first non-confident move he’d seen her make. “I think Freddy may have been killed because of abilities he had.”

“Abilities?”

“Freddy was empathic. He could feel emotions as a physical sense.”

Mike sagged, fighting a keen sense of disappointment and a growing anger. He thought they were on to something, but no. She was one of those loopy new-age nut jobs—a very beautiful new-age nut job.

“You don’t believe me.”

Mike shoved his coffee cup aside. “No, I don’t believe you, and if you’ve finished wasting my time, I have real work to do.”

“Wait,” she said as he stood.

“I’m a busy man, Miss Baron.”

“What happened in the alley?”

Mike hesitated with his palms flat on the table. “Nothing.”

“Liar. You had a panic attack.”

“Fine. I had a panic attack. I work ninety hours a week on a good week. I don’t eat or sleep properly, and I see a lot of terrible things. Sometimes the stress gets to me, okay?”

“I did it.”

“Bull dust.”

“This would be so much easier if you just believed me, but I see I’m going to have to prove it.”

“Prove what?” A rush of pure erotic heat raced through Mike’s body and headed straight between his legs. He sat down with a thud as those same limbs turned into wet noodles.

She leaned further across the table. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how we accept some emotions as a normal part of our daily life? Fear, pain, worry, anger, anxiety, guilt? We put them down as a standard occurrence caused by traffic jams, a suspicious person in our peripheral vision, a horrendous story on the evening news. You know what I mean, all sorts of things. But, sexual excitement? Desire? Lust?

Arousal? Those we can’t explain away quite so easily, can we, detective?”

Her voice was a husky edged blade running over his skin. Heat. His whole body was a mass of pulsing aroused heat. Mike fought the almost uncontrollable urge to jerk his hips forward and sink into soft firm flesh. I’m having sex. Jesus, I feel like I’m having sex. All of the sensations were there. A series of highly carnal scenarios ran though his mind like a movie. Supple limbs wrapping around his,

warm silky skin rubbing against him, moist lips panting with hot breath, fanning his face. His erection pressed against his zipper, and even that was unreasonably erotic. Mike was lost in a sensual storm, held captive by luminous blue eyes. The pressure built in his lower back, culminating in a blast of sensation, a tightening of his groin. Christ, I’m going to come.

Meredith broke eye contact, relaxed back in her chair, and picked up her hot chocolate.

Mikes impending orgasm, and all the associated sensations, vanished. He slumped against the table, heaving in great lungful’s of air. “Jesus Christ!”

“Nope. Just me.”

He gaped at her, his fingers curled into claws against the solid wood, and heart beating in double time. “What are you?”

The look she gave him was a mixture of exasperation and annoyance. “I’m not a what. I’m an empath. What do you say? Are you willing to listen to me now?”

“Yes,” he said, through a clenched jaw.

“Good.” She slid a gilt edged business card toward him, before standing and hitching a leather bag on her shoulder. “My place at eight tonight, address is on the card. Be prepared to listen. Oh, and Stone, drink your coffee. You look like you need it.”

About the Author: Carolyn Wren is the award winning author of a seven part romantic suspense series called, The Protectors. Having spent her working life as a book-keeper and finance officer for international companies, she discovered a passion for fiction writing in 2009. Assuming it was some sort of mid-life crisis, she kept it a secret for six months. In an impulsive move, she entered The Emerald, a prestigious writing contest for unpublished authors run by the Romance Writers of Australia. Much to her utter shock, she won it. This was followed shortly after by a finalist placing in the International Daphne Du Maurier Awards for Excellence in Mystery/ Suspense.

Carolyn received a seven book contract with Secret Cravings Publishing in 2011. Her debut published work Diplomat’s Daughter won the RWA ‘Ella’ award for novella of the year. phies.

To date, The Protectors series has received four award nominations, resulting in two tro-

Carolyn’s other works include a very naughty ghost erotic novella Ghosts of Grace Cottage that she wrote during a stormy winter day. Her new series, the murder mystery urban fantasy Emotional Chains is her latest obsession.

She writes full time now, enjoys every minute of it, and loves hearing from readers. www.carolynwren.com www.carolynwrenauthor.wordpress.com www.facebook.com/carolynwrenauthor https://twitter.com/carolyn_wren

Tales of the Curious Cookbook It’s called comfort food for a reason.

Not much is known about the cookbook, except that years ago, the mysterious Granny B collected a set of magical recipes and wrote them down. Over the years, each book has been modified, corrected, added to, and passed down through the generations to accumulate its own unique history. The secrets behind these very special recipes are about to find their way into new hands and new lives, just when they’re needed the most.

Food created out of love casts a spell all its own, but Granny B’s recipes add a little something extra. This curious cookbook holds not only delicious food, but also the secrets of love, trust, and healing, and it’s about to work its magic once again.

Each Book in Tales of The Curious Cookbook Can Be Read As a Standalone

For A Rainy Afternoon Tales of the Curious Cookbook Book 1 RJ Scott Genre: MM Romance Publisher: Dreamspinner Press Date of Publication: April 1, 2015 Word Count: 23,200 Cover Artist: Reese Dante

Description: Robbie MacIntyre runs a small Post Office made from a converted Station House in a village northwest of London. He is stunned when a close friend leaves him the property as an inheritance after her death.

She owned the shop and has left everything to him. Not only that but she has left the place she lived, Apple Tree Cottage, to an American - a stranger who has recently moved to Barton Hartshourn.

The sealed box that they inherit includes several rare first editions and a cookery book. Only when the secrets of the ingredients in a particular recipe are finally revealed does everything begin to make sense... and a love story that began seventy years ago is finally uncovered.

About the Author: RJ Scott has been writing since age six, when she was made to stay in at lunchtime for an infraction involving cookies. She was told to write a story and two sides of paper about a trapped princess later, a lover of writing was born.

As an avid reader herself, she can be found reading anything from thrillers to sci-fi to horror. However, her first real true love will always be the world of romance where she takes cowboys, bodyguards, firemen and billionaires (to name a few) and writes dramatic and romantic stories of love and passion between these men.

With over sixty titles to her name and counting, she is the author of the award winning book, The Christmas Throwaway. She is also known for the Texas series charting the lives of Riley and Jack, and the Sanctuary series following the work of the Sanctuary Foundation and the people it protects.

Her goal is to write stories with a heart of romance, a troubled road to reach happiness, and most importantly a happy ever after. www.rjscott.co.uk https://twitter.com/Rjscott_author

www.facebook.com/author.rjscott

www.librarything.com/author/scottrj www.tumblr.com/blog/rjscott www.pinterest.com/rjscottauthor/ Food for Thought Tales from the Curious Cookbook Book 2 Amy Lane Genre: Contemporary M/M Publisher: Dreamspinner Press Date of Publication: April 8, 2015 Word Count: 26K Cover Artist: Reese Dante Book Description:

book give him the clarity he needs?

Emmett Gant was going to tell his father something really important about himself one morning, but his father died before he got the chance. A year and a half later, Emmett's life is a muddle of the life he thinks he should have and the man he really wants. Can the gift of a mysterious cook-

Prologue Dust for Dinner

Emmett Gant looked at himself in the mirror of his dorm room, and wondered how gay he looked. He had a long bony face and gray eyes, so usually he looked just… solid and placid, a sober, rawboned specimen of American manhood.

But he knew he was gay. He’d known since his long ago junior high crush on his best friend Vinnie. His crush on Vinnie had gone away—for one thing, Vinnie was just too awesome a friend to crush on for long. He was the kind of friend who would sneak all the seniors on the football field in the pissing rain, after the last home game, so they could perform their competition band show without instruments, singing their parts at top volume. He was the kind of friend who would show up at your dorm in Sacramento from his dorm in Chico, with a keg in the back of his aging Mini Cooper and a plan to go eat sourdough bread and look at girls on the beach.

He was the kind of friend who would nurse Emmett through a broken heart and not ask the name

of the person who broke it—wouldn’t even ask the gender.

He was a brother kind of friend—but he wasn’t a crushing on kind of friend, not anymore.

Emmett had lived through the crushing on kind of friend, and had broken his heart, and he’d managed to pull his grades out of the toilet from that semester, and managed to put on some of the weight he’d lost too.

And now it was time to tell his father why he’d looked like hell for three months. Because right now, only two other people in the world knew, and they weren’t likely to tell a soul.

Emmett decided that whether he looked gay or straight, his sandy hair wasn’t going to get thicker or more interesting looking and it was time to go. He pulled out his cell phone and hit his dad’s picture. Ira Gant had a farmer’s face—but he’d been a factory worker, so maybe that was just the kind of face he was supposed to have. Raw-boned, like Emmett, unsmiling, he always seemed to be looking at a grimmer version of the world than Emmett could imagine, and his picture in Emmett’s phone wasn’t any different.

“Hey Dad? You must be outside mowing the lawn. Anyway, just a reminder that I’m on my way today, okay? I’ll cook dinner—I know you get tired of eating out. See you when I get there!”

Emmett’s dad didn’t say… well, anything, but Emmett had figured out that his dad liked it when he cooked. When he’d been about six, he’d once tried to make popcorn in a pressure cooker, because he’d been home alone and hungry, and they’d had an air popper, but he hadn’t been able to reach it. He had, fortunately, not killed himself by blowing up the kitchen, but the lid to the pressure cooker had frozen, and when his dad got home, Emmett was crying over the pressure cooker, because he was starving and all of the popcorn was right there and he couldn’t pry the lid open.

His dad had taught him how to make noodles then, and Mac & Cheese, and even open a can of beans and add hot dogs. Emmett had been the one to find the kids’ cookbook at the library, and then Vinnie’s mom, Flora, had helped him through the basic recipes.

Emmett’s dorm had a hot plate and a minifridge, but once a week and on the holidays, Emmett went to his dad’s place and made things like chicken cacciatore and roast pork with new potatoes, and he enjoyed that. He didn’t want to do it for a living, but being able to give his dad some sort of substantial proof that Emmett was grateful for his upbringing: that was important.

Emmett didn’t remember his mom—she’d left before he went to kindergarten—but Emmett’s dad had… well, been there. He’d hugged Emmett when he’d cried—although he hadn’t offered any advice on how to stop. And he’d tried to make sure Emmett grew up as a healthy child, although Emmett had needed to go next door to Vinnie’s house to know how to grow up as a happy one. No, a communicator Ira Gant was not, but Emmett was still sort of sure his daddy loved him.

For one thing, every Sunday when Emmett arrived, his dad was sitting out on the rotting wooden porch of the old stucco house waiting for him, even if it was near the summer and a zillion degrees outside.

This particular mid-April day, it wasn’t supposed to get above 80, so Emmett was surprised at the end of the two-hour drive to find that his dad wasn’t there on the porch. The house looked like it always did—the stucco was chipped and peeling, the porch needed to be painted, and the roof was probably falling down—but Emmett’s dad was nowhere to be found.

About the Author:

Amy Lane has four children, two cats, a love starved Chi-who-what, a crumbling mortgage and an indulgent spouse. She also has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes fantasy, urban fantasy, and m/m romance--and if you give her enough diet coke and chocolate, she'll bore you to tears with why those three genres go together. She'll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write.

Website: www.greenshill.com Blog: www.writerslane.blogspot.com Twitter: @amymaclane

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/ show/151973.Amy_Lane Amazon: http://smile.amazon.com/Amy-Lane/e/B008FRGFG8/

Lost Along the Way Tales of the Curious Cookbook Book 3 Marie Sexton Genre: gay contemporary romance, with a bit of magical realism Publisher: Dreamspinner Press Date of Publication: April 15, 2015

Word Count: 44K

Cover Artist: Reese Dante Description: Three months after losing his parents in a car crash, Denver weatherman Daniel Whitaker returns to Laramie, Wyoming. It’s bad enough dealing with the death of his parents and his failing relationship of fifteen years, but when he finds his childhood home full of clutter, Daniel is at a loss. He enlists Landon, his parents’ sexy neighbor, to help him sort through the mess.

Landon Kushner is a study in contradictions. He builds wind sculptures out of scrap metal and loves the outdoors, but he also rides a mint-green Vespa and has an affinity for knitting and fortunetelling. He’s been friends with Daniel’s parents for years, and he’s more than willing to lend a hand.

Their plan is simple: clean the house so Daniel can sell it and get back to his life in Denver. But when a strange cookbook comes into Landon’s possession, Daniel begins to realize that the universe – and Granny B – may have other plans.

About the Author: Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.

My website/blog: http://mariesexton.net/ Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MarieSexton.author Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarieSexton Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/msextonauthor/ Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/mariesexton Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/ show/3292500.Marie_Sexton

Cookies for Courting Tales of the Curious Cookbook Book 4 Amber Kell Publisher: Dreamspinner Press Release Date: April 22, 2015 Genre: M/M Contemporary Book Description: After his sister’s death, businessman Marshall Hunter gains custody of his niece. Unused to children, Marshall struggles to connect with her. In an effort to make her more comfortable in her new home, he hires professional muralist Pace Barlow to personalize her room.

Pace is intrigued by his tiny client, and even more interested in her handsome uncle, but Pace isn’t certain he’s ready for the commitment of an instant family.

When Marshall decides to move for the sake of his niece, will he be able to keep his relationship with his young artist, or will he have to give up love to become a good father for a lonely little girl?

The love baked into an old-fashioned recipe might bring the two men together–but some things take more than magical cookies to fix.

About the Author: Amber Kell has made a career out of daydreaming. It has been a lifelong habit she practices diligently as shown by her complete lack of focus on anything not related to her fantasy world building.

When she told her husband what she wanted to do with her life he told her to go have fun.

During those seconds she isn't writing she remembers she has children who humor her with games of 'what if' and let her drag them to foreign lands to gather inspiration. Her youngest confided in her that he wants to write because he longs for a website and an author name—two things apparently necessary to be a proper writer.

Despite her husband's insistence she doesn't drink enough to be a true literary genius she continues to spin stories of people falling happily in love and staying that way.

She is thwarted during the day by a traffic jam of cats on the stairway and a puppy who insists on walks, but she bravely perseveres.

Website: www.amberkellbooks.com Blog: www.amberkell.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/amber.kell.7 Twitter: https://twitter.com/amberkell

Just Desserts Tales of the Curious Cookbook Book 5 Mary Calmes Genre: Contemporary Publisher: Dreamspinner Press Date of Publication: April 29, 2015 Number of pages: 87 Word Count: 29k Cover Artist: Reese Dante Book Description: Boone Walton has tried hard to create some distance between himself and his past. He's invested in his new life, his New Orleans art gallery, and in his friendship with Scott Wren. Things finally seem to be settling down to normal, and Boone couldn’t be happier.

Chef Scott Wren wants much more than normal with Boone. He wants to raise things to the next level, but Boone is terrified—and not because of the ghost in Scott’s apartment or Scott’s relatives.

No, Boone's past is about to pay him a visit, and the only thing that can get between Boone, Scott, and a hinky recipe for chocolate mousse found in a curious cookbook is the river of pain Boone had to swim to get to this side of The Big Easy. There’s a secret behind the ingredients, though—one that might reveal the trust and love that have been missing from Boone’s life.

About the Author: Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with

a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work.

http://www.marycalmesbooks.com/

http://www.marycalmesauthor.com/

All Stories Are Ghost Stories

by Tamara Linse I recently read Kelly Link’s great short story “Two Houses” in The Best Science Fiction of the Y ear, V olume Seven. It’s also in her new collection Get in Trouble.

It’s such a great story. Two sister ships are sent out into deep space, and one of the ships disappears in the blink of an eye. Years later, the crew of the second ship awakes from hypersleep for a birthday party and to tell ghost stories. There’s the story of the ghostly people looking up from the table in the meadow. There’s the little girl cut in half by a falling tree.

There’s the rich aristocratic boyfriend who lived in two identical ghostridden houses. I won’t tell you the end, but it gives me the chills just to think about it.

That got me thinking. Someone much smarter than I said that all stories are ghost stories, and I think that’s true. We writers are in the industry of memory. We take our own emotional memories, and we bleed them out on the page.

Our best writing comes from those things that haunt us, the make us uncomfortable, that embarass us, that shake us to our bones. One of my mentors, Steve Almond, once said, “Run screaming toward the pain.” It’s so true.

We writers have to embrace discomfort and pain in a way others can avoid.

We have to “go there” in our minds, experience things, in order to write about them. If your character is dying, you have to experience what that’s like in order to write about it, even if it’s just research. You have to imagine it. You have to imagine the worst possible scenarios to make them real on the page, and the more fully you imagine them and convey that, the better the work is.

My novel Earth’s Imagined Corners is a ghost story because it’s my imagining of what my great grandfather and great grandmother went through as he grew up in poverty and was thrown in prison for a horse thief. Them meeting and marrying and moving to Kansas City to open a store. These are some of my ghosts ~ Ma Strong and her husband Frank. It haunts me, how Frank and his mother were in poverty. How Frank was both a good man and also did things like stealing horses and chasing his wife with an ax.

It’s also my ghost story because it takes my deepest feelings of terror and puts them on the page. I fear the powerlessness that comes with being a woman, and it was so much moreso in the 1880s. I am deeply saddened

by poverty, and I empathize with that little boy who was so powerless to help himself and his mother. I feel in some small way the terror and struggle of what it was like ~ and still is ~ to be black in America. And there’s the physical struggle of trying to escape natural disasters large and small.

Writers find different ways to show these ghosts. Some people are literally drawn to ghosts, and there are so many wonderful ghost stories. In addition to Kelly Link, Harry Potter comes to mind. And sometimes those ghosts are morphed into other forms, whether it’s historical fiction or science fiction or paranormal. It’s taking the metaphor and putting your own personal twist on it. And I love that. I love that two people can take the exact same idea and their stories will be so different. It’s the one thing that is uniquely ours ~ unique in the true sense of the word, as in the only one in the world. That’s what you offer: your unique take on things.

And so I would encourage you to take that thing that makes you so special ~ your unique take on the world ~ and write the very best stories you can. The world would be poorer without your ghosts.

Photo: The author’s great grandparents Frank and Ellen Strong.

Earth’s Imagined Corners The Round Earth Series Book 1 Tamara Linse Genre: Historical Fiction Publisher: Willow Words Date of Publication: January 31, 2015 ISBN: 978-0-9909533-1-9 ASIN: B00T18RRNK Number of pages: 472 Word Count: 130,000 Book Description:

In 1885 Iowa, Sara Moore is a dutiful daughter, but when her father tries to force her to marry his younger partner, she must choose between the partner—a man who treats her like property—and James Youngblood—a kind man she hardly knows who has a troubled past.

When she confronts her father, he beats her and turns her out of the house, breaking all ties, so she decides to elope with James to Kansas City with hardly a penny to their names.

In the tradition of Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! and Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, Earth’s Imagined Corners is a novel that comprehends the great kindnesses and violences we do to each other.

Available at Amazon Excerpt:

Anamosa, Iowa, 1885 Sara Moore should have nothing to fear this week. She had been meticulous in her entering into the ledger the amounts that Minnie the cook requested she spend on groceries. She had remembered, just, to include her brother Ed’s purchase of materials to mend sister Maisie’s doll house and to subtract the pickling salt that she had purchased for sister Esther but for which Esther’s husband Gerald had reimbursed her. She stood at her father’s shoulder as he went over the weekly household accounts, and even though her father owned Moore Grocer & Sundries from which she ordered the family’s groceries, he still insisted she account for the full price in the ledger. “No daughter of mine,” he often said, though sometimes he would finish the thought and sometimes his neatly trimmed eyebrows would merely bristle.

Despite the buttressing of her corset, Sara hunched forward, somewhat reducing her tall frame. She intertwined her fingers so that she would not fiddle with the gathers of soft navy wool in her overskirt, and she tried not to breathe too loudly, so as not to bother him, nor to breathe too deeply, in order to take in little of the cigar smoke curling up from his elephant-ivory ashtray on the hulking plantation desk.

As always, the heavy brocade curtains armored Colonel Moore’s study against the Iowa day, so the coal oil lamps flickered in their brackets. Per instructions, Sipsy the maid lit them early every morning, snuffed them when he left for the grocery, lit them again in anticipation of his return at seven, and then snuffed them again after he retired. It was an expense, surely, but one that Sara knew better than to question. The walls of the study were lined with volumes of military history and maps of Virginia and Georgia covered in lines, symbols, and labels carefully inked in Colonel Moore’s hand. In its glass case on the bureau rested Colonel Moore’s 1851, an intricately engraved pistol awarded to him during the War of Northern Aggression. Sipsy dusted daily, under stern directive that not a speck should gather upon any surface in the room.

Sara’s father let out a sound between an outlet of breath and a groan. This was not good. He was not pleased. Sara straightened her shoulders and took a breath and held it but let her shoulders slump forward once more.

“My dear,” he said, his drawl at a minimum, “your figures, once again, are disproportionate top to bottom. And there is too much slant, as always, in their curvatures. I urge you to practice your penmanship.” His tone was one of indulgence.

Inaudibly, Sara let out her breath. If he was criticizing her chirography, then he had found nothing amiss in the numbers. The accounts were sound for another week. Later, when he checked the numbers against the accounts at the grocery, there was less of a chance that she had missed something.

He closed the ledger, turned his chair, and with both hands held the ledger out to her. She received it palms up and said, “I will do better, Father.”

“You would not want to disappoint to your mother.” His drawl was more pronounced.

So he had regretted his indulgence and was not satisfied to let her go unchecked. His wife, Sara’s mother, had been dead these five years, and since then Sara had grown to take her place, running the household, directing the servants, and caring for six year-old Maisie. Ed needed little looking after, as he was older than Sara, though unmarried, and Esther, the oldest, was married with two daughters and farm of her own.

Sara straightened her shoulders again and hugged the ledger to her chest. “Yes, Father,” she said and turned and left the room, trying to keep her pace tranquil and unhurried. She went to the kitchen, where Minnie had a cup of coffee doused with cream and sugar awaiting her. Minnie gave her an encouraging smile, and though Sara did not acknowledge what went unsaid between them—one must shun familiarity with the servants—she lifted her shoulders slightly and said, “Thank you, Minnie.” Minnie, with the round figure and dark eyes of a Bohemian, understood English well, though she still talked with a pronounced accent, and Sara had only heard her speak the round vowels and chipped consonants of her native tongue once, when a delivery man indigenous to her country of origin walked into the kitchen with mud on his boots. Sara tucked the ledger in its place on a high shelf and then allowed herself five minutes of sipping coffee amid the wonderful smells of Minnie’s pompion tart. Then she rose, rinsed her cup, and applied herself to her day.

The driver had Father’s horse and gig waiting, as always, at twenty minutes to nine. As Father stretched his fingers into his gloves, pulling them tight by the wrist leather, he told Sara, “When you come at noon, I have something unusual to show you.”

“Yes, Father,” she said.

It seemed odd that he would concern her with anything to do with business. He left her to the household. He had long tried to coerce Ed into the business, but Ed’s abilities trended more toward the physical. He was a skilled carpenter, though Father kept a close rein on where he took jobs and whom he worked for. All talk of renaming the business Moore & Son had been dropped when Father had recently promoted the young man who was his assistant, Chester O’Hanlin, to partner. Mr. O’Hanlin had droopy red muttonchops and a body so long and thin he looked a hand-span taller than he really was, which was actually a bit shorter than Sara. Mr. O’Hanlin didn’t talk much, either, and he seemed always to be listening. He held himself oddly, cocking his head to one side, first one way and then the other, his small dark eyes focusing off to the left or right of the speaker. His nose, long and wedge-shaped, seemed to take up half his face. “Chester, the Chinaman,” Maisie called him outside of his presence because of the way he stooped and bobbed whenever their father entered the room.

About the Author: Tamara Linse jokes that she was raised in the 1880s, and so it was natural for her to set a book there. She is the author of the short story collection How to Be a Man and the novel Deep Down Things and earned her master’s in English from the University of Wyoming, where she taught writing. Her work appears in the Georgetown Review, South Dakota Review, and Talking River, among others, and she was a finalist for an Arts & Letters and Glimmer Train contests, as well as the Black Lawrence Press Hudson Prize for a book of short stories. She works as an editor for a foundation and a freelancer.

Find her online at www.tamaralinse.com and her blog Writer, Cogitator, Recovering Ranch Girl at www.tamara-linse.blogspot.com Facebook https://www.facebook.com/tlinse Twitter https://twitter.com/TamaraLinse Google+ https:// plus.google.com/u/0/ +TamaraLinse/posts

Sarai’s Fortune Shadowcat Nation Book 2 Abigail Owen Genre: paranormal romance Publisher: The Wild Rose Press Number of pages: 246 Word Count: 60,000 Book Description: Zac Montclair's first priority is to protect his people. With the escalating war between factions of shifters over land and resources, he has agreed to an alliance between his polar bears and the Shadowcat Nation of cougar shifters. But the treaty comes with a condition…he must accept one of their Seers into his Timik and put her under his personal protection.

Sarai Bouchard doesn't need her supernatural gift to know that Kyle Carstairs's obsession with controlling her ability will eventually result in her misery and demise. Her power is essential to her people's survival, so when Kyle goes rogue, she's sent to Zac Montclair to keep her safe. However, her visions reveal that while staying will lead to their becoming lovers, it also leads to his death. Leaving Zac will result in her own.

If Sarai can't find a way to change the future, she will be forced to choose…save her lover or save herself.

Excerpt Book 2: Sarai concentrated on precise, sharp movements with as much power as she could muster. She’d only been working out for ten minutes or so. She’d started the day similarly yesterday. She cooked breakfast, eating with the guys. She dragged George and Scott on more sightseeing trips. Today she’d decided to explore a small portion of Central Park. She didn’t try to lose them this time. When they’d got home, they’d hit the gym.

Now, Sarai tuned out Scott and George—who were sparring across the way from her—to focus on her own drills.

“How about you try that out on a man who moves and reacts.”

Sarai spun on her heel to find Zac standing behind her. He was wearing running pants and a tight tank top, which meant she didn’t need to use her imagination to picture the muscles of his arms and chest. They were

on display. Her own personal show. Sarai swallowed.

Then she computed what he’d said. How was she going to get out of this? The truth was she couldn’t spar. Her visions messed her up. But that was a secret she had no intention of sharing with three people.

“Not really a good idea.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he glanced over her shoulder at George and Scott who’d stopped to listen. “I’ve got this, fellas. Why don’t you go back up to the apartment?”

There was no doubt in her mind that was a command, not a suggestion. Clearly the guys thought so too.

She watched them leave the room with wide eyes.

As the door closed behind them, Zac’s hands landed on her shoulders, turning her to face them. “Okay, kuluk. It’s just you and me now. What are you not saying?”

Sarai had never felt this vulnerable in her life. Or this scared. This man got to her in a way no one else ever had. How was she supposed to resist that?

“Why is this so important to you?”

He moved his hands from her shoulders to frame her face, his fingers threading through the dark blond strands of her hair. “Keeping you safe is important to me. I need to know how much you can defend yourself if you have to. It will help me determine just what I need to prepare for. No surprises. Okay?”

Sarai took a deep breath. He couldn’t have meant it that way. Just the thought of being important to this big, strong man connected with the frightened, lonely little girl who’d spent her life just trying to survive. But she couldn’t think that way. She had to leave him, and that knowledge made her want to cry.

Seeing her hesitation, he brushed her cheeks softly with the pads of his thumbs. “Let me help you with this burden,” he murmured softly, his voice a hypnotic, deep rumble.

Sarai bit her lip. Sharing this with him really wasn’t that big a deal. She knew she could trust him.

On a deep inhale, she gave a tiny nod and started talking before she could change her mind. “Okay.”

He gave her one of those rare little half-smiles, making her suddenly very glad she had agreed to capitulate. Thankfully, he released her and stepped back, giving her room to breathe.

Andromeda’s Fall Shadowcat Nation Book 1 Abigail Owen Genre: paranormal romance Publisher: The Wild Rose Press Date of Publication: 12/10/14 ISBN: 978-1-62830-661-3 ASIN: B00PM6T2YW Number of pages: 258 Word Count: 61,300 Cover Artist: Debbie Taylor Book Description: Andromeda Reynolds is being hunted. After witnessing her mother’s violent death at the hands of a pack of wolf shifters, Andie has devoted her life to protecting her community of cougar shifters from a similar fate. But now, a greater threat lies within her own dare, and she must run. If she stays, Kyle Carstairs will force their mating, seeking the added political power their union would provide.

Andie would rather chew off her own foot than end up with Kyle. Though, knowing him, she won’t live long either way. Andie’s only hope of survival is to mate Jaxon Keller, the Alpha of the Keller Dare

with which she is seeking asylum. But before she can get to him, Andie must first go through A.J., one of the Alpha’s Protectors.

What Andie doesn’t realize is that A.J. has secrets of his own. All Andie knows is that the incredibly frustrating shifter insists on challenging her story, her skills, her trust… and her heart.

Excerpt Book 1: He glanced down at her. “You really are a tiny thing, aren’t you?” arm.”

Andie scowled. “Don’t let my size fool you. I can pack a wallop when I want to. Even with a broken A.J. laughed. “I’m sure you can.”

Andie stared straight ahead, her mouth thinning. She hated being patronized. Men were so dense sometimes. They never took her seriously until she showed them exactly why they should.

Keeping her left arm protected, Andie suddenly dropped. One leg shot out and she spun low to the ground, sweeping A.J.’s feet out from under him. As he landed on his back, she was on top of him, her knee on his windpipe—not crushing, just sending a message.

Before she could gloat too much, though, she was flying through the air. Andie tucked into a back flip, landed on her feet, and then spun and launched herself backwards in a one-handed back handspring. A.J. had just gotten on his feet when her legs wrapped around his neck. She used her momentum to drop him back to the floor.

Andie rolled and ended up in a crouch close by. A.J. held up his hands in surrender. “All right, wildcat.

You’ve proved yourself.”

Andie glared at him. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you just lost either,” she said in a severe voice, made harsher, perhaps, by the fact that she’d just realized exactly how incredible his blue eyes were. They were a vibrant color made even more interesting by the black ring that rimmed the irises. And she was more than irritated with herself for having noticed that at all.

He levered himself up off the floor. “Fair enough.”

The only thing that kept her from proving her point more—because she could tell he’d held back—was the small amount of respect she could see in his eyes. With a brusque nod, she followed him down the hall.

About the Author: Award-winning paranormal and contemporary romance author, Abigail Owen was born in Greeley, Colorado, and raised in Austin, Texas. She now resides in Northern California with her husband and two adorable children who are the center of her universe.

Abigail grew up consuming books and exploring the world through her writing. A fourth generation graduate of Texas A&M University, she attempted to find a practical career related to her favorite pastime by earning a degree in English Rhetoric (Technical Writing). However, she swiftly discovered that writing without imagination is not nearly as fun as writing with it.

Website/Blog: http://abigailowen.com/

Sometimes, It Takes a Village To Defeat Writer’s Block

By Chuck Gould During the last couple of decades, I have been lucky enough to earn a living as a writer. Over 1,000 magazine articles and feature under my own name, and a few humorous pen names, appeared in recreational boating magazines in the Pacific Northwest. Five, six, seven and more per month. Month after month, year after year, articles and features sprang almost effortlessly from the keyboard.

I discovered, as do a lot of writers, that I was far less productive when focused on the recreational writing of a novel. Long lists of things that seemed to be more urgent were constantly diverting time and energy from writing. I was fairly comfortable and confident with non-fiction, but self-doubt regarding the relative “quality” of my fiction proved to be an additional disincentive. I was always planning to work on my novel “when I got around to it,” and often secretly relieved when presented with a good excuse for putting off facing my insecurities and anxieties.

Things turned around, almost instantly, when I joined a writer’s group in Seattle. We met in person, once a week to read aloud up to about 5 pages produced since the previous meeting. As each member completed their work for the next session, we circulated the manuscripts by email to allow other members time to carefully evaluate and critique the work.

There are any number of virtual critique groups that purport to fulfill the same function on-line. I’ve tried a few of them, and continue to participate sometimes. Meeting in person has a number of advantages. As a writer, you quickly develop a sense of being accountable to the other individuals in the group. Old time magazine writers, as well as news reporters, will appreciate the effective influence of a weekly deadline.

Joining an in-person writing group eliminates one of the more serious disadvantages of on-line critique groups. Many people seem to feel it is far more blessed to receive than to give: perhaps especially on line. When a group meets in person, the price for receiving four or five weekly crits on a chapter is offering four or five crits in return. There’s no chance, when meeting in person, that hours spent reading and evaluating the work of other novelists won’t be reciprocated in kind.

I discovered there are both advantages and disadvantages to working with a small, fixed group. An author, and the critique group, learn to communicate more effectively as weeks go by. There is very little chance that a member of the group will castigate a chapter out of spite or a perverse desire to be smart aleck. On the other hand, I suspect there were instances where something I wrote was more disappointing than one or two of my group members chose to communicate. While it is never useful to be deliberately cruel, sparing an author’s feelings may encourage tepid or ineffective technique.

Yes, sometimes it takes a village to overcome writer’s block. Two novels published since last September (“Summertime, Book One” and “Summertime, Book Two”) demonstrate that at least for me, and no doubt for others as well, a weekly deadline and accountability to other writers spurs productivity.

Summertime Book One Chuck Gould Genre: metaphysical fantasy Publisher: Starry Night Publishing Date of Publication: September 28, 2014 ISBN: 9781502523174 Number of pages: 298 Word Count: Cover Artist: Larry Dubia Book Description: Wesley Perkins, successful and privileged advertising executive, makes an apparently impromptu purchase in a pawn shop. Almost immediately, he becomes immersed in a new reality. Old values evaporate. The line between good and evil seems inconsistent. Wesley is challenged to accept profound change, all the while juggling choices of enormous consequence.

Summertime, Book One, is the first portion of a story that delves into a surreal realm of metaphysical fantasy. Situational moralities are juxtaposed with omnipresent supernatural forces. Where the boundaries of our mundane lives intersect cosmic intents, events, and conspiracies, we can become overwhelmed by involuntary transformation. We look for surrogate sacrifices, and a home in Summertime.

Available on Amazon

BN

Excerpt Book 1 Vanessa hated the basement. Even during the daylight hours, she ventured only reluctantly down the stair to do her laundry or occasionally retrieve something from storage. She knew there were rats in the basement. She often swept up their droppings, and it wasn’t unusual to hear something scraping against cardboard boxes as it ran along the base of the wall. Oddly enough, Vanessa seldom saw a rat. Infrequently, a sacrificial rat would appear- neck broken by the savage spring of Vanessa’s 17th Century style trap. Vanessa used to pretend she had caught “the” rat, and wouldn’t need to spend hundreds of dollars for an exterminator. Over the years, she had accepted an unhappy truce with her resident rodents. These days, she didn’t call an exterminator because there was always something that seemed a more important use of the money.

Vanessa found her flip flops and bathrobe, and headed for the stairway. Her open white bathrobe hung from her shoulders, contrasting with her dark skin but failing to provide any degree of modesty. She was reluctant to venture underground at night, but the weird idea that there might be some unexplained connection between Wesley Perkins and her probable grandfather, Judah Jones, couldn’t molder until daylight. She flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs. The loud snap of the switch initiated a series of electrical flashes, followed by the muffled explosion of a failing light globe.

“Shit. One lightbulb in the whole damn basement, and it just burned out. Hell with it. I’m going down there anyway. I’ve got to, got to, got to figure this out.”

Vanessa tied her bathrobe across the front of her body, grabbed a fresh globe from a kitchen cabinet next to the stairway door, and stepped slowly into the blackness. A 90-degree bend at the top of the stairs prevented any usable amount of light from filtering in from the kitchen. Vanessa moved her feet slowly and deliberately between wooden treads, feeling her way in the darkness with heel and toe. A few steps from the bottom, she gasped at the sensation of something with tiny paws ran across her bare foot tops, dragging what felt like a coarse tail behind. She was sure she saw a pair of glowing eyes near the laundry sink. There was definitely a rustle among the storage boxes.

Vanessa considered turning around and climbing back up the stairs. She wanted to act as though her visit to the basement could wait until morning, but she was compelled to conclude it could not.

Summertime Book Two Chuck Gould

Genre: Metaphysical fantasy Publisher: Starry Night Publishing Date of Publication: January 26, 2015 ISBN: 9781507681787 Number of pages: 316 Cover Artist: Larry Dubia

Book Description: The metaphysical fantasy continues in this sequel to Summertime, Book One. Wesley Perkins spirals ever deeper into a world he struggles to understand, inextricably linked to the tragic past of a long dead blues musician, Judah Jones. His closest allies are Jones’ granddaughters. Wesley must endure a variety of forces attempting to manipulate his fate, after being warned about the dangers presented by his own ego.

Meanwhile, in Iberia Parish Louisiana, pilgrims seek a new home in a spiritual enclave established by a charlatan radio preacher. The entire community falls victim to an ancient heresy. Are these disparate universes part of a common, supernatural conflict?

Excerpt Book 2:

Ira lodged Memphis Rail and the Family Jones at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill. Mary Towne retired to her room upon arrival. Vanessa and Redd Wilmott shared a room, as did Wesley Perkins and Rebekah.

Art Abbott and John Flood sought out the Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar. Back in the 1940’s, the Fairmont converted the hotel’s indoor swimming pool to a Tiki bar. The pool became a rectangular lagoon, with a floating stage. A ship’s mast, tropical huts, Polynesian sculptures, and the façade of an Asian house illuminate by paper lanterns instilled a dimly lit atmosphere. Faux thatched roofs hovered over tables around the perimeter of the pond.

A waitress approached their table.

“Tonga Mai Tai, please,” requested John. shell?”

Art chuckled. “You really want one of those candy ass drinks served in a phony coconut “Shit, ya.”

“Make mine a Seagram’s and Seven, please, Miss,” said Art.

John rested his elbow on the table and his head on his fist. “Gonna be a big day tomorrow.

Two shows, sold out. Who woulda thought? Even six months ago, we be lucky to sell four or five thousand seats.”

Art shook his head with a shiver. “Yeah, but are you really OK with this? I’m thinkin’ about that incident at Rain Crow. And a shitload of other stuff to boot. I heard you play the sax, once, a long time ago. You couldn’t get a goddam note out of that Wesley Perkins’ horn. What’s up with that?”

“Hell, I don’t know exactly. Seems spooky as shit, if you ask me. For now, I’ve just decided to ride along, ‘cause the money’s gonna be really good.”

“Money? Holy crap man, is all of this reduced to bein’ about money?”

“Well, no. But money’s a big part of it,” said John. “Was a time it was mostly about love. Hell, I’d a paid to drum for The Rail when we first started out. Now days, I’m mostly old, tired, worn out, and ready to give it up and go home.”

Art was ready to change the subject. “Check out that floatin’ stage.”

“Yeah, so what about it, other than it’s pretty small.”

“Ever think there’s this invisible line?”

John shifted to the opposite elbow. “Huh? I don’t follow you, really.”

“Like there’s this invisible line between where we are and where everybody else is. It’s sort

of the edge of the stage, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, hell yeah. Most of the folks buyin’ tickets think that there’s some magical divide. Like we never have to take a piss halfway through a set. Like we ain’t put in fifty hours of rehearsal and made a hundred mistakes for every sixty seconds we have out shit together during a concert. Hell yeah, I get that.”

“So, that floatin’ stage just makes the point more directly. Sort of like there’s this middle ages moat or something.”

The waitress returned with the drinks. “Are you gentlemen staying here at the hotel? If so, we’d be pleased to start a tab and bill it to your room.”

A young woman passed their table. She stopped abruptly, and looked deliberately at the two musicians. She flashed a slow smile of recognition, coupled with a slight nod, before she waved very slightly and continued on her way. Art and John watched her hips shift back and forth beneath a short, tight skirt.

Art sipped his drink. “You see the posters?”

About the Author: Seattle native Chuck Gould is a writer and musician.

Formerly editor of Nor’westing Magazine and editor emeritus of Pacific Nor’West Boating, he has written over 1,000 articles for recreational boating magazines.

Chuck plays a variety of keyboard instruments, and enjoys the “exercise in humility” attempting to master the great highland bagpipe. https://www.facebook.com/Novelwerk

What inspired you to become an author?

Reading romance books inspired me. I would be reading a book and think, “I would’ve done this with the dialogue or plot.” Plus, I have tons of ideas (that I keep in a file on notecards).

Do you have a specific writing style?

I like writing in first person, past tense, because it’s what I prefer to read. It’s most important to me that my characters and the story are entertaining. No matter the plot, I try to write the characters and dialogue as if they are real people.

Do you write in different genres?

So far, I’ve written young adult & new adult contemporary romance and zombie apocalypse with paranormal elements. In the works are a couple adult contemporary romance books.

If yes which is your favorite genre to write?

I love writing romance and happily ever afters.

How did you come up with the title for your latest book?

The series is called Beware of Bad Boy, so all three books are inspired by warning signage: Beware of Bad Boy (Beware of Dog), Danger! Bad Boy (Danger! High Voltage), Toxic Bad Boy (Toxic Hazard).

Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s complete?

The rough draft of the first book was finished before it was titled Beware of Bad Boy. The last book of the series was titled before it was complete.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

It’s okay for teens in fiction to act their age. They can have their more mature moments, but in the end, they’re young and they should have fun.

Is the book, characters, or any scenes based on a true life experience, someone you know, or

events in your own life?

The feeling of an intense first love and outside interference are based on my own experience at the age of the characters.

Is there a genre(s) that you’d like to write that you haven’t tackled yet?

Paranormal romance and MC romance. I’d also like to try writing science fiction and horror.

Of all the characters you’ve ever written, who is your favorite and why?

Jackson Blanc from Young Love Murder because he’s a calm, mysterious assassin. He’s the main character’s older brother and his book will be out later this year.

If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share?

The Beware of Bad Boy series is now complete. My next book will be Young Assassins 2, which will feature Jackson Blanc from Young Love Murder.

What book are you reading now?

I just finished Y ou W ere Mine last night by Abbi Glines.

What books are in your to read pile?

Soaring by Kristen Ashley, Silver Bastard by Joanna Wylde and Dark Instincts by Suzanne Wright.

What books/authors have influenced your life?

Kristen Ashley’s books have a way of imprinting themselves into your mind. I re-read the Immortals After Dark series by Kresley Cole every year.

If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

I don’t think of my favorite authors as mentors because I write differently than them, but if there was an author I’d like to lock in my house and force to entertain me with stories, it’d be Kresley Cole.

Can you share a little of your current work with us?

I can say that Jackson’s love story in Young Assassins two will be very different than his sister’s in the first book.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Figuring out the right amount of description to give readers. I don’t want to leave them guessing, but I also don’t want them skimming chapters. I try to keep it the right amount.

Who designed the cover of your latest book?

I designed the covers for all my books, but my talents are limited so my next book cover will be designed by L.M. Creations.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Don’t try to be another writer, be unique and let the story flow.

Do you have a song or playlist (book soundtrack) that you think represents this book?

I have a Beware of Bad Boy series soundtrack on Spotify. I listened to it and added songs as I wrote the books.

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

I spent my childhood in a small California farming town where there were more Hispanics and Latinos than any other ethnicity. (I’m half-Hispanic, half-European white descent). Then I spent my teenage years in a small North Dakota town where 99.9% of the population was of European white descent (mostly Scandinavian – lots of natural blondes!). It was a big culture shock.

When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures?

I read a lot (check out my Goodreads) and love CW shows. I also get into vintage Harlequin Presents phases where I read like 10-30 of them in a row. Most of them were published before or around the time I was born, but I find them highly entertaining.

What is next for you? Do you have any scheduled upcoming releases or works in progress?

Next is Young Assassins 2 (Jackson’s story) and an adult contemporary romance series I’m starting.

Toxic Bad Boy Beware of Bad Boy Trilogy Book 3 April Brookshire Genre: mature young adult contemporary romance Date of Publication: March 30th, 2015 Number of pages: 220 Word Count: 70,000

Book Description: Caleb and Gianna’s lives were ruined by a brutal attack. She ended up in the hospital and he was thrown in juvie.

For Caleb, being apart from Gianna is worse torture than being locked up. He’s unable to help her through the aftermath of the assault and dealing with the confinement of youth corrections.

Gianna is lost, her mind going to dark places. She loves and misses Caleb, but doesn’t know how to deal with the upheaval and panic attacks. Emerging, are new threats to her safety and her relationship with Caleb.

While Gianna struggles with her ability to be Caleb’s girlfriend after he’s released, Caleb struggles to hold on to the only girl he’s ever loved.

This is the third book and conclusion to the Beware of Bad Boy series.

About the Author: April Brookshire is the author of the Beware of Bad Boy and Young Assassins series. She also co-authors the Dead Chaos series. She writes under the contemporary romance and apocalyptic fantasy genres and has a few projects in the works for 2015.

Growing up with four brothers, she doesn’t like chick flicks but devours romance books of all genres. A book addict, she’s read almost two thousand books to date.

April lives in a suburb of Denver, Colorado, where she raises her young son. When she isn’t writing, she’s usually reading, but also enjoys attending concerts and plays in the numerous venues of the city. www.aprilbrookshire.net http://aprilbrookshire.net/blog/ https://twitter.com/AprilBrookshire https://www.facebook.com/AprilBrookshireAuthor https://www.pinterest.com/aprilbrookshire/ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5154295.April_Brookshire Spotify Beware of Bad Boy Series Playlist https://play.spotify.com/user/aprilbrookshire/ playlist/3gWTK6pvAGbV7DjtwTl1XY

Excerpt: DJ, are you awake?

Freaking elf. “Go home, Rand.”

I am home. Where are you?

I frowned and burrowed my face into the soft down pillow. Which wasn’t my pillow.

Holy crap. What had happened?

I sat up and took in several observations at once, none of which made sense and all of which sent my heart rate jack-rabbiting hard enough to send my blood pressure into the ozone.

First, I was lying beneath a heavy bedspread woven in a rich blue-and-cream print. The bed was an elaborate confection made to look like an antique half-tester, and a brass chandelier hung overhead.

I recognized the Hotel Monteleone. I recognized Jean Lafitte’s bedroom in the posh Eudora Welty Suite in the Monteleone. I didn’t have a clue as to how I got here.

Second, I wore only underwear. My clothes were thrown across a chair in the corner. I had no recollection of removing them.

Third, the pillow next to mine still held the clear indentation of a head, and there was water running behind the closed bathroom door.

What in God’s name had I done?

Rand! Where are you? So help me, if that elf was behind this, I’d splay him open like a catfish and watch his guts fall on the floor. Then I’d batter and deep-fry him.

God, Dru. Stop shrieking like an elven shrew. I think you got too cold and went into a survival state.

Survival state? Then I remembered, and shame joined panic. I had gone into hibernation like a bear, right out on Royal Street in front of God and everyone. Quince Randolph, you sonofabitch! Why didn’t you warn me that would happen?

Stop yelling. How did I know you’d be stupid enough to go traipsing through the snow to the point of unconsciousness? I can tell you’re in the Quarter, but where are you?

Catch you later.

I slammed shut every mental door I could imagine and then troweled imaginary caulk in any imaginary cracks around said doors. I was vaguely aware that, off in the distance of my mental stronghold, Rand was yelling at me.

Had Jean hauled me back to the hotel like a sack of pommes de terres? How had he explained a hibernating blonde to the hotel management? At least my dark blue underwear matched. Had he taken advantage of me? No, it wasn’t his style. Which meant I’d consented.

Alex was going to kill me if I didn’t kill myself first. I wasn’t sure hibernation-brain was an adequate defense.

The bathroom doorknob rattled and I dove under the covers, even though I realized it was like closing the barn door after the half-naked cows had escaped.

From my hiding spot, I heard the door open and footsteps cross from tile to carpet before stopping with a rustle of fabric. “Hey, babe. You finally back from the dead? Whatcha doin’ under there?”

“Rene?” I poked my head out and frowned at my buddy the merman, fully dressed in jeans and a Saints sweatshirt. His feet were bare, and he walked around the bed and climbed in as if either one of us belonged here, much less at the same time.

“What are you doing here? What am I doing here? Who undressed me? Where’s Jean?” And, as an afterthought, “Why are we in bed?”

Now that I realize I hadn’t acted like my licentious great-aunt Dru and slept with the pirate, I transferred my anger to the proper place and it wasn’t to myself. I’d kill that sneaky Frenchman if he weren’t immortal.

Rene was not immortal, however, and he was within reach. “You better start talking, fish boy.”

“Aiyeeee.” Rene cackled like the Cajun he was, and fluffed the pillow behind his head. “I told Jean you’d be spittin’ mad. Nothing happened, babe. Your clothes were wet and I was just trying to keep you warm. I’m a shifter, you know. We run hot.”

“Oh, do you now.”

That made him laugh harder.

I threw off the covers and stomped over to my clothes. He’d seen whatever I had and I knew he didn’t want it, so there was no point in hiding. I picked up three soggy layers of T-shirts and sweaters, and cords so wet they weighed about ten pounds.

My breath hitched. The staff; I’d lost the staff. I whirled to Rene, who sat propped against the lush draped fabric that covered the headboard, watching me with a grin. “Where’s my bag?”

“In the living room. Everything’s there, babe, even your magic stick. Jean, he took care of you.”

Yeah, I just bet he did. It was hard to argue effectively in underwear I’d intended only Alex Warin to see, so I went into the living room, dug my room key out of my messenger bag, and stuck my head out the door, looking up and down the hallway.

“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere,” I yelled at Rene, and made a run for it, jamming the keycard into my door lock and slipping inside before I was spotted. If hotel cameras caught my mad dash on security footage, well, I’m sure they’d seen stranger things. This was New Orleans, after all.

Pirate’s Alley Sentinels of New Orleans Book 4 Suzanne Johnson Genre: Urban Fantasy Publisher: Tor Books Date of Publication: April 21, 2015 ISBN: 978-0765376978 ASIN: B00O0FZQS2 Number of pages: 352 Word Count: 96,000 Book Description: From award-winning author Suzanne Johnson comes the fourth book in the smart and sexy Sentinels of New Orleans series.

Wizard sentinel DJ Jaco thought she had gotten used to the chaos of her life in post-Katrina New Orleans, but a new threat is looming, one that will test every relationship she holds dear.

Caught in the middle of a rising struggle between the major powers in the supernatural world—the Wizards, Elves, Vampires and the Fae—DJ finds her loyalties torn and her mettle tested in matters both professional and personal. Her relationship with enforcer Alex Warin is shaky, her non-husband Quince Randolph is growing more powerful, and her best friend Eugenie has a bombshell that could blow everything to Elfheim and back.

And that's before the French pirate Jean Lafitte, newly revived from his latest "death," returns to New Orleans with vengeance on his mind. DJ's assignment? Keep the sexy leader of the historical undead out of trouble.

Good luck with that.

Duty clashes with love, loyalty with deception, and friendship with responsibility as DJ navigates passion and politics in the murky waters of a New Orleans caught in the grips of a brutal winter that might have nothing to do with Mother Nature.

War could be brewing, and DJ will be forced to take a stand. But choosing sides won't be that easy.

Available at Amazon BN Book Depository

About the Author: Suzanne Johnson writes urban fantasy and paranormal fiction from Auburn, Alabama, on top of a career in educational publishing that has thus far spanned five states and six universities—including both Alabama and Auburn, which makes her bilingual. She grew up in Winfield, Alabama, but was also a longtime resident of New Orleans, so she has a highly refined sense of the absurd and an ingrained love of SEC football, cheap Mardi Gras trinkets, and fried gator on a stick.

Writing as Susannah Sandlin, she also is the author of the best-selling Penton Legacy paranormal romance series and The Collectors romantic thriller series. Elysian Fields, book three in the Sentinels of New Orleans series, won the 2014 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence while her Sandlin-penned novel, Allegiance, is nominated for a 2015 Reviewer’s Choice Award from RT Book Reviews magazine.

Website: http://www.suzannejohnsonauthor.com Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/SusannahSandlin FB: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorSuzanneJohnson

Celtic and Other Deities I tread carefully when I include gods in my fiction because I want to be respectful. I try for a balanced approach, but there will always be those who love something I’ve written and those who feel I should have done it differently. That’s particularly true for mythological figures.

During my psychoanalytic training in Jungian approaches to dream work, I read a lot of mythology. Hundreds of books. Not just Greco-Roman myths, but also Celtic, Norse, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and JudeoChristian. One thing that struck me is the diversity in different researchers’ depictions of gods and goddesses including their personalities, their relationships with one another, and their role in a pantheon.

When I include gods and goddesses in fiction, I try to stay with the mainstream impressions of them. That being said, once they become fictional characters in my mind, they develop their own personalities, ideas, and ways of being in the story world. One thing I do aim for is consistency across books. For example, Arawn, god of the dead, revenge and terror, and Gwydion, master enchanter and warrior magician, are in my Dragon Lore Series, and also in the Earth Reclaimed Series. They’re the same person, no matter which of my books they show up in. The same can be said for Ceridwen, who is in the Dragon Lore books and also in The Witch Chronicles series.

For those who might be curious how the gods showed up in my books, it surprised me too. The authors among you will understand when I say writing is an altered state of consciousness. The story flows through me, but I’m more a medium at that point than a mastermind pulling puppet strings. Characters come to me in dreams, while I’m out walking, and when I’m writing too.

My fond hope is I don’t disrespect any of the gods or goddesses in Celtic lore, but I’m always interested in feedback from readers. If any of you have read my books and have thoughts about the gods and goddesses in them, I’d love to hear about them.

Earth’s Requiem Earth Reclaimed Book 1 Ann Gimpel Dream Shadow Press 107K words Release Date: 3/1/15 Genre: Dystopian Urban Fantasy Resilient, kickass, and determined, Aislinn's walled herself off from anything that might make her feel again. Until a wolf picks her for a bondmate, and a Celtic god rises out of legend to claim her for his

own.

Book Description: Aislinn Lenear lost her anthropologist father high in the Bolivian Andes. Her mother, crazy with grief that muted her magic, was marched into a radioactive vortex by dark creatures and killed. Three years later, stripped of every illusion that ever comforted her, twenty-two year old Aislinn is one resilient, kickass woman with a take no prisoners attitude. In a world turned upside down, where virtually nothing familiar is left, she’s conscripted to fight the dark gods responsible for her father’s death. Battling evil on her own terms, Aislinn walls herself off from anything that might make her feel again in this compelling dystopian urban fantasy.

Fionn MacCumhaill, Celtic god of wisdom, protection, and divination has been laying low since the dark gods stormed Earth. He and his fellow Celts decided to wait them out. After all, three years is nothing compared to their long lives. On a clear winter day, Aislinn walks into his life and suddenly all bets are off. Awed by her courage, he stakes his claim to her and to an Earth he's willing to fight for.

Aislinn’s not so easily convinced. Fionn’s one gorgeous man, but she has a world to save. Emotional entanglements will only get in her way. Letting a wolf into her life was hard. Letting love in may well prove impossible.

Excerpt Book One:

Available at Amazon

Aislinn tried to stop it, but the vision that had dogged her for over a year played in her head. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. Mental images crowded behind her closed lids, as vivid as if they’d happened yesterday. She raked her hands through her hair and pulled hard, but the movie chronicling the beginning of her own personal hell didn’t even slow down. She whimpered as the humid darkness of a South American night closed about her…

Her mother screamed in Gaelic, “Deifir, Deifir,” and then shoved Aislinn again. She tried to hurry like her mother wanted, but it was all too much to take in. Stumbling down the steep Bolivian mountainside in the dark, she ignored tears and snot streaking her face. Her legs shook. Nausea clenched her gut. Her mother was crying too, in between cursing the gods and herself. Aislinn knew enough Gaelic to understand her mother had tried to talk her father out of going to the ancient Inca prayer site, but Jacob hadn’t listened.

A vision of her father’s twisted body lying dead a thousand feet above them tore at Aislinn. Just a few hours ago, her life had been normal. Now her mother had turned into a grief-crazed harridan. Her beloved father, a gentle giant of a man, was dead. Killed by those horrors that had crawled out of the ground. Perfect, golden-skinned men with long, silky hair and luminous eyes, apparently summoned through the ancient rite linked to the shrine. Thinking about it was like trying to shove her hand into a flame, her pain too unbearable to examine closely.

Aislinn was afraid to turn around. Tara had already slapped her once. Another spate of Gaelic galvanized her tired legs into motion. Her mother was clearly terrified the monsters would come after them, but Aislinn didn’t think they’d bother. At least a hundred adoring half-naked worshipers remained at the shrine high on the mountain. Once Tara had herded her into the shadows, her last glimpse of the crowd revealed one of the lethal exotic creatures turning a woman so he could penetrate her. Even in Aislinn’s near-paralyzed state, the sexual heat was so compelling, it took all her self-discipline not to race to his side and insist he take her instead.

After all, she was younger, prettier. It didn’t matter at all that he’d just killed her father. …Aislinn shook her head so hard, it felt like her brains rattled from side to side in her skull. Despite the time that had passed since her father’s murder, she still fell into these damned trance states, where the horror happened all over again. Tears leaked from her eyes. She slammed a fist down on a corner of her desk, glorying in the diversion pain created. Crying was pointless. It wouldn’t change anything. Self-pity was an indulgence she couldn’t afford.

Pull it together. The weak die.

Even though she wasn’t sure why life felt so precious—after all, she’d lost nearly everything—Aislinn wanted to live. Would do anything to hang onto the vital thread that maintained her on Earth.

A bitter laugh bubbled up. What a transition: from Aislinn Lenear, college student, to Aislinn Lenear, fledgling magic wielder. A second race of alien beings, Lemurians, had stormed Earth on the heels of that hideous night in Bolivia, selecting certain humans because they had magical ability and sending everyone else to

their deaths.

It was a process. It took time to kill people, but huge sections of Salt Lake City sat empty. Skyscraper towers downtown and rows of vacant buildings mocked a life that was no more. In her travels to nearby places before the gasoline ran out, Aislinn had found them about the same as Salt Lake.

Jacob’s death had been a harbinger of impending chaos—the barest beginning. The world she’d known had imploded shockingly fast. It killed Aislinn to admit it—she kept hoping for a miracle to intercede—but her mother was certifiable. Tara may as well have died right along with her husband. She hadn’t left the house once since they’d returned a year before. Her long, red hair was filthy and matted. She barely ate. When she wasn’t curled into a fetal position, she drew odd runes on the kitchen floor and muttered in Gaelic about Celtic gods and dragons. It was only a matter of time before the Lemurians culled her. Tara had magic, but she was worthless in her current state.

The sound of the kitchen door rattling against its stops startled Aislinn. On her feet in a flash, she took the stairs two at a time and burst into the kitchen. A Lemurian had one of its preternaturally long-fingered hands curved around Tara’s emaciated arm. He crooned to her in his language—an incomprehensible mix of clicks and clacks. Tara’s wild, golden eyes glazed over. She stopped trying to pull away and got to her feet, leaning against the seven-foot tall creature with long, shiny blond hair, as if she couldn’t stand on her own.

“No!” Aislinn hurled herself at the Lemurian. “Leave her alone.”

“Stop!” His odd alien gaze met hers. “It is time,” the Lemurian said in flawless English, “for both you and her. You must join the fighting and learn about your magic. Your mother is of no use to anyone.”

“But she has magic.” Aislinn hated the pleading in her voice. Hated it.

Be strong. I can’t show him how scared I am.

Something flickered behind the Lemurian’s expression. It might have been disgust—or pity. He turned away and led Tara Lenear out of the house.

Aislinn growled low in her throat and launched herself at the Lemurian’s back. Gathering her clumsy magic into a primitive arc, she focused it on her enemy. Her tongue stuttered over an incantation. Before she could finish it, something smacked her in the chest so hard she flew through the air, hit the kitchen wall, and then slumped to the floor. Wind knocked out of her, spots dancing before her eyes, she struggled to her feet.

By the time she stumbled to the kitchen door, both the Lemurian and her mother had vanished.

An unholy shriek split the air, followed by another. Aislinn clapped a hand over her mouth to seal the sound inside and clutched the doorsill. Pain clawed at her belly. Her vision became a red haze. The fucking Lemurian had taken her mother. The last human connection she had. And they expected her to fight for them?

Ha! It would be a cold day in Hell. She let go of the doorframe and balled her hands into fists so hard her nails drew blood.

Standing still was killing her, so she walked into blindingly bright sunlight. She didn’t care what happened next. It didn’t matter anymore. A muted explosion rocked the ground. She staggered. When she turned, she wasn’t surprised to see her house crack in multiple places and settle. Not totally destroyed, but close enough.

Guess they want to make sure I don’t have anywhere to go back to.

Her heart shattered into jagged pieces that poked her from the inside. She bit her lip so hard it ached. When that didn’t make a dent in her anguish, she pinched herself, dug her nails into her flesh until she bled from dozens of places. Fingers slick with her own blood, she forced herself into a ragged jog. Maybe if she put some distance between herself and the wreckage of her life, the pain sluicing through her would abate.

As she ran, a phrase filled her mind. The same sentence, over and over in time to her heartbeat. I will never care for anyone ever again. I will never care for anyone ever again. After a time, the words etched into her soul…

Earth’s Blood Earth Reclaimed Book 2

Ann Gimpel Dream Shadow Press 105K words Release Date: 3/1/15 Genre: Dystopian Urban Fantasy Clinging to their courage in a crumbling world, Aislinn and Fionn vow to save Earth, no matter what it takes.

Book Description: In a post-apocalyptic world where most people have been slaughtered, the Celtic gods and a few humans with magic are all that stand between survival and Earth falling into chaos. The combination of dark sorcery leveraged by the enemy is daunting. Destruction is all but certain if the small enclaves of humans who are left can’t get past their distrust of the Celts.

Captured by the enemy, Aislinn Lenear wonders if she’ll ever see her bond wolf or Fionn, a Celtic god, again.

She’s had nothing but her wits to rely on for years. They haven’t failed her yet, but escape from her current predicament seems remote.

An enticing blend of dystopian urban fantasy and romance, this second volume of the Earth Reclaimed Series provides fertile ground for Aislinn and Fionn’s relationship to deepen. Headstrong and independent, the pair run up against each other’s demands time and time again. Fireworks spark. In the end, they learn to savor every moment in a bittersweet world where each day may well be the last.

Excerpt Book Two:

Available at Amazon

…One last quick breath. Aislinn threw her power wide open, diverting some to shield herself. She funneled the rest into a wild sprint away from the gaping maw of a door. Pain lanced up her leg, but she ignored it and urged her muscles to greater speed. She needed to free up at least a three-minute lead so she could jump herself out of there. Portals took time to form, so she was vulnerable at the start of traveling jumps.

Her lungs burned; the ragged sound of her own breathing echoed off the walls. Where were Rune and Fionn? Throwing caution to the winds, she called for Rune. Maybe he could find her. If he can do that, he’ll lead Fionn to me.

A high-pitched shriek filled her ears and built to where it was unbearable. Her leg wasn’t the only thing on fire. Her eardrums ruptured. Hot fluid ran down the sides of her face. A wave of dizziness threatened to flatten her, but she didn’t slow. It had taken the Lemurians a few precious seconds to react to her disobedience. She prayed it would give her enough time to escape.

The air in the corridor shimmered fifty feet ahead. Desperate, she looked for a side tunnel, an open doorway, anything she could duck into. It would be just like the Old Ones to cut off her escape from all sides.

Noooooo, a voice in her head screamed. I do not want to die here.

The brightness intensified. It may not matter what I want, a different inner voice muttered dourly. She snuck a peek over one shoulder. The air looked funny there, too, but it was different somehow. Bleaker.

“Lass, drop your shielding.” Fionn’s voice sounded in her head. “Ye must, or I canna jump us out of this

hellhole. Hurry, or they’ll have you from behind.”

She wondered if it was some kind of insidious trap. She tried to sense Fionn, but couldn’t. He’d be warded as well, but still... She risked another glance behind her. The ocher-tinged air was, indeed, closer. It smelled like the reptile exhibit at the zoo her parents used to take her to when she was a child: musty and rank.

A few more steps, and the brilliance ahead surrounded her. “Now, lass. Now.” Fionn’s unique energy pulsed against her. Practically sobbing with relief, Aislinn pulled magic from her wards. The second she did so, he closed his arms around her. The gut-wrenching sensation of jumping when someone else controlled the spell pummeled her. Even if it made her puke, she’d never felt anything quite so welcome.

“Rune?”

“He’s fine. Hush. I need to concentrate. This was a much narrower margin than I’m comfortable with.

We’re not out of the woods yet, leannán.”

Her ears throbbed. Her leg ached. She didn’t mind being quiet. Not when Fionn’s arms were around her. She could stand just about anything so long as they were together. Travis’s sneering face filled her mind, along with an impotent rage.

I’m going to kill that bastard if I ever see him again.

“Only if I doona get to him first,” Fionn snapped.

She considered complaining because he was in her head again—without her permission—but choked on a snort. After today, Fionn MacCumhaill could spend as much time as he wanted in her mind. Hell, he could take up residence there for all she cared.

The familiar walls of Marta’s kitchen rose around her. Snarling and snapping came from the study, followed by Gwydion’s Celtic brogue. “There now. She is back. ’Tis a stubborn creature, ye are. Ye dinna believe me. Go.” Rune galloped into the kitchen, his claws skidding on the wooden floor, and launched himself at Fionn in his eagerness to get at Aislinn. “Put her down,” the wolf demanded.

Bella flew into the room right behind the wolf, quorking, “Yes, put her down.” The bird landed on Fionn’s shoulder.

“Be careful,” Fionn cautioned. “She’s hurt. Doona be too exuberant. Bella, watch your talons.”

“I know how Aislinn feels,” Rune said indignantly. “After all, she is bonded to me.”

“Och aye, I hadna forgotten.” Fionn rolled his eyes and chuckled indulgently, while ruffling Bella’s dark feathers.

Aislinn lowered herself to the floor and closed her arms around Rune. She gloried in the feel of his rough outer coat and the soft fuzz beneath. Fionn and the hard, muscled planes of his body would keep. In spite of everything that had happened, desire forked through her at the thought of his lips on hers, his hands stroking her naked flesh, and his hardness buried deep inside her. a brow.

“Soon, lass.” Fionn winked at her. He added a vision of her mouth locked around his shaft and quirked

She laughed and raised her gaze to meet his intensely blue eyes. “No secrets, huh?”

“Never, lass. It may not be a Hunter bond like ye share with the wolf, but our pledge, one to t’other, runs just as deep.”

Bella took flight, landed on Aislinn’s shoulder, and rained love pecks on her head. “Don’t be listening to my bondmate. He always had a honeyed tongue.”

“Really?” Fionn stepped close enough to mock-swat the raven.

“No secrets,” the raven cawed scornfully.

“Point taken. Come here.” Fionn held out an arm, and Bella fluttered to him. The two bent their heads together. Aislinn figured they were probably talking in their private mind speech.

The wolf howled and then whined and licked every inch of skin he could find. “Hurt? Where are you hurt, bondmate?”

“Ankle and ears. It’s nothing. Aw, Rune. I never thought I’d see you again.” Gratitude swelled inside her. Her throat thickened until it was hard to breathe; tears rolled down her face. The wolf licked them up…

Earth’s Hope Earth Reclaimed Book 3 Ann Gimpel Dream Shadow Press 95K words Release Date: 3/6/15 Genre: Dystopian Urban Fantasy Power so old, deep, and chilling it hurts to think about it will overrun Earth if nothing changes. Targeted, furious, and fighting back, Aislinn runs wide open, gathering allies and putting her life on the line.

Book Description: Aislinn Lenear has traveled a long road since the dark gods invaded Earth better than three years ago. After seeing her father slaughtered in front of her, and her mother sink into madness, Aislinn built strong walls around her heart. First her bond wolf, and then Fionn MacCumhaill, changed all that, but she and Fionn are far from home free.

Four of the six dark gods are still sowing destruction, and they’ve joined forces with Lemurians, a desperate lot, running just ahead of the tide of their own mortality. In a bold move, they try to coopt a group of young dragons, and very nearly succeed. Dewi, the Celtic dragon god, and Nidhogg, the Norse dragon god, banish their brood to the dragons’ home world, but they refuse to stay put.

In a fast-paced, tension-riddled closure to this dystopian, urban fantasy series, Earth's Hope sweeps from Ireland to the Greek Islands to the Pacific Northwest to borderworlds where the dark gods live. Fionn’s and Aislinn’s relationship is strained to the breaking point as they struggle to work together without tearing one another to bits. Fionn is used to being obeyed without question, but Aislinn won’t dance to his tune. If they can find their way, there may be hope for a ravaged Earth.

Available at Amazon Excerpt Book Three: …One of the red dragons leaped from the water, wings flapping, and dive-bombed her, showering her with slimy moat water.

“Ewww.” Aislinn sputtered the dank water away from her lips.

“Play with us,” the female dragon demanded.

“It’s almost time for bed.” Aislinn tried to sound stern, but she had the same problem with the younglings that plagued Dewi. They were so damned cute, it wasn’t easy to pull rank.

“Bed?” echoed from six other dragonlings. They vaulted from the water and converged on her, nearly crushing her beneath their bulk.

“Get off me,” Aislinn cried. “You’re heavy.”

“Yes,” the one black dragon announced proudly and nudged Rune with his scaled snout. “Once I rode you. Soon you’ll fit atop my back.”

“Don’t count on it,” Rune snarled.

Aislinn snickered. Flying atop a dragon wasn’t the wolf’s favorite activity. He tolerated it when he had to, but avoided it when he could.

“How’s it going, leannán?” Fionn strode down the greenway separating the moat from his castle.

Aislinn scrambled to her feet and shook water out of her hair. Her beige trousers were thick, boiled wool and fairly resistant to moisture. A cloak woven from the same wool wrapped around her body. She’d found the clothes in one of many trunks in Fionn’s attic. He couldn’t recall who they’d belonged to, but she assumed it was an earlier wife or girlfriend since he’d been born in 1048.

“Good, you’re here.” She squinted through the gloom. When he got close enough for her to see his face, the welcoming smile died on her lips.

“Aye, well at least someone is glad of my presence.”

“Didn’t go well, huh?” She held out her arms. He walked into them and wrapped his around her.

“Nay. Mostly the humans want to wait until we’re attacked. Bran wants to annihilate the Lemurians first.” He tightened his arms around her shoulders. “I want to bash our way through the dark gods until they get fed up enough to retreat, but I canna do it by myself.”

“We’ll help.” The black dragonling tried to wriggle between Fionn’s and Aislinn’s bodies. His scales

caught on Aislinn’s pants.

“We will, we will,” other young voices chimed in.

“The dark ones killed our sister,” the black dragon went on, his piping voice serious. “We want revenge.”

“Mother won’t let us fight,” a green dragon spoke up. “She already said so.”

“Father disagreed,” the red dragon who’d invaded Aislinn’s lap said.

She’d gotten better at telling them apart, but it would be a relief once they named themselves. In all, there were two red females, three green males, the black male, and a copper male.

“I fear all of us will get our chance in battle afore this is over.” Gwydion, flanked by Bran, walked into their midst. “Come with me. Time to give Aislinn a break.”

“Will you tell us a story?” the copper dragon demanded.

“Yes,” a red dragon clapped her clawed forelegs together. “You tell the best stories.”

“I’ll be your bard tonight.” Bran made a sweeping bow. “Mayhap you’d care to hear about how dragons came to be.”

“Yes!” the red female shrieked.

“Follow Bran,” Gwydion urged. Once the dragons were in motion, some flying, some walking, he rolled his eyes and brought up the rear.

“Thanks,” Aislinn shouted after him.

“Ye owe me, lass,” he called over one shoulder.

Aislinn leaned her head into the nook between Fionn’s neck and shoulder. “Would you like to walk a bit before we go inside?”

“Aye, lass. Now ye mention it, I’d like that verra much.”

“Do you suppose we could go as far as the sea?”

“I thought we’d remain within my wards—” Bella flapped out of the darkness and landed on Rune’s back. “We’re coming,” she announced.

“Of course we are,” Rune seconded. “My bonded one would never consider leaving me behind.”

Aislinn stifled a snort. The bond animals had their own network and frequently shared things among themselves that they’d never tell their humans. Apparently Bella had complained about Fionn ditching her, and the wolf was reminding her of that in a less-than-subtle manner.

“Since we’re all going,” Aislinn cut in before Fionn got into another argument with the cantankerous raven, “let’s do this. I sat for so long, I’m cold.” She wriggled out of Fionn’s embrace, reluctant to leave the warmth of his body.

“Would ye like me to find you a warmer wrap?” Fionn asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t want this to be a big production number. Mostly, I want to work the kinks out of my legs before we go to bed. Thank Christ Dewi will be back by the middle of tomorrow.”

Fionn hooked a hand beneath her arm and guided her toward the wall that rose all around his manor.

He’d had the mansion built in the fifteen hundreds to exacting specifications. Flat, gray stones comprised the outer wall; they fit together so precisely it was nearly impossible to detect their edges. The house itself was built from huge wooden beams and river rock. Five stories, with turrets and a tower and leaded glass windows, it looked like something out of a movie set.

Aislinn fell into step beside him, grateful for her long legs that let her keep pace easily. They passed beneath one of four curved gateways set into the outer wall and out onto open moorland. Humans who’d been assigned sentry duty nodded as they passed. The salt tang of the sea deepened, tickling her nostrils. For a moment, she felt homesick for the dry air of the American west where she was from. Rune jumped to one side, jaws snapping, and came up with a small, wriggling creature.

“I shall hunt too,” Bella declared and launched herself off the wolf’s back. The black of her wings melted into the shadows until Aislinn couldn’t see her anymore without magic.

“Why’s she unhappy this time?” Aislinn asked.

“What it comes down to,” Fionn replied, “is she doesn’t enjoy sharing me. Aye, she likes you well enough. Not like your mother, who she detested, but jealousy still gets the better of her.”

“She’s good to have by our side in battle, though.” Aislinn licked her lips and tasted salt from perpetual mists that hung in the air. “Speaking of which, I assume there’s another pow-wow with the humans.”

“Aye, that there is. If nothing else, we must craft a defensive plan should we be attacked.”

“Not if, but when,” she cut in. “I can’t put my finger on it, but time grows short. I feel it here.” She laid a hand over her chest.

“Ye and Bran, both. He says the Lemurians are closing, and I presume the dark gods are masterminding whatever they’re up to.”

Rune growled from around his impromptu meal. “I’m ready.” He shifted to mind speech because his mouth was busy.

Aislinn waited for the raven to jump in, but either Bella was out of earshot, or biding her time. The roar of breakers on sand got louder as they closed the distance to the beach. Fionn stopped walking and spun her in his arms until they faced one another. He murmured a string of Gaelic endearments just before he closed his mouth over hers.

Aislinn wove her arms around Fionn’s muscled torso and opened her mouth to his insistent tongue.

Need flared, hot and urgent, but Fionn always had that effect on her. From the moment their bodies had first slammed together, passion drove reason from her mind.

She’d lost her father to Perrikus and D’Chel the night they’d pierced the veil separating Earth from their borderworlds. Lemurians had killed her mother a year later, and Aislinn had vowed to never let another soul get close enough to hurt her if something hideous happened to them. She’d held firm for two years, but first Rune and then Fionn, had walked into her life and changed everything.

Too late. It’s too late to worry about it now. Her breath quickened, and her nipples formed hard peaks

where they were squashed against his chest.

Fionn dropped his hands lower and cupped the curves of her ass, pulling her hard against an obvious erection. She tore her mouth from his. “So, do you just want to fall into the wet grass and get it on?”

He made a decidedly male sound deep in his throat. “Not a bad idea, leannán. I can make us a dry place with magic.” He butted his hard-on against her pelvis. “At least we’d have a shred of privacy. No telling who’ll burst into my rooms back in the house.”

“No kidding. Do you suppose the dragons have figured out how to work their way past the deadbolt?”

“Och, lassie. Now ye mention it, I caught the black one using magic to do just that earlier today.” He tugged one of her arms from around him and pushed her hand over his engorged flesh. “We willna be long.

Think of the adventure aspect.” Muted humor ran beneath his words…

About the Author: Ann Gimpel is a mountaineer at heart. Recently retired from a long career as a psychologist, she remembers many hours at her desk where her body may have been stuck inside four walls, but her soul was planning yet one more trip to the backcountry. Around the turn of the last century (that would be 2000, not 1900!), she managed to finagle moving to the Eastern Sierra, a mecca for those in love with the mountains. It was during long backcountry treks that Ann’s writing evolved. Unlike some who see the backcountry as an excuse to drag friends and relatives along, Ann prefers solitude. Stories always ran around in her head on those journeys, sometimes as a hedge against abject terror when challenging conditions made her fear for her life, sometimes for company. Eventually, she returned from a trip and sat down at the computer. Three months later, a five hundred page novel emerged. Oh, it wasn’t very good, but it was a beginning. And, she learned a lot between writing that novel and its sequel.

Around that time, a friend of hers suggested she try her hand at short stories. It didn’t take long before that first story found its way into print and they’ve been accepted pretty regularly since then. One of Ann’s passions has always been ecology, so her tales often have a green twist.

In addition to writing, Ann enjoys wilderness photography. She lugs pounds of camera equipment in her backpack to distant locales every year. A standing joke is that over ten percent of her pack weight is camera gear which means someone else has to carry the food! That someone is her husband. They’ve shared a life together for a very long time. Children, grandchildren and three wolf hybrids round out their family.

www.anngimpel.com

http://anngimpel.blogspot.com

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@AnnGimpel

Dreaming of the Gods The Vikings believed that only warriors could enter the halls of Valhalla and that every day was a good day to die. To appease their god, Odin – the Lord of War, Death and Knowledge, warriors battled, and warriors died. Only upon death could these brave men and women enter the lands of their fathers, led by the hand of a Valkyrie.

Times were harsh, land and food, sparse, and so they looked to the gods for signs. Read their fate in the Runes and followed the words of their seers. The stones foretold their destiny – good or ill, and when the gods spoke, the warriors listened. If their seer’s sleeping dreams foretold of the life tree, Yggdrasil’s, birth or death, then the land followed its telling. Laguz meant chaos. Dagaz meant hope. Magic and the weight of prosperity – survival and life, lay heavily upon a man’s heart.

It is in this depth of uncertain possibilities that gods, kings and men worth following their dreams, were made.

Dreamwalker K.A. M’Lady Genre: Fantasy, Paranormal, Erotica Publisher: Mojocastle Press Date of Publication: 3/8/15 ISBN: 9781601802057 Number of pages: 72 Word Count: 18138 Cover Artist: Vanessa Hawthorne Book Description: In a time when legends ruled ~

Deep in the heart of the Kelljek Mountains the Wolf People of Elnorn follow the ways of Odin – living and dying by the sword.

An untried warrior king must find truth in the darkness ~ Gararic – warrior and ruler wages war against the dark arts of the Black Witch, Dianaria and finds he must battle for more than just his people’s freedom. Will he find the truth he seeks on the sweet taste of her lips or will treachery destroy him and his people?

To be set free, one only needs to dream ~ A Dreamwalker by birth, Dianaria knows her fate and her future lies with the warrior king. Can love conquer the shadows of betrayal and hate?

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Excerpt: Lightning and thunder danced through the sky in a symmetrical glow, roaring through the cliffs. Gararic hurried up narrow winding paths of loose shale. It would take him a morning’s time in good weather to get up the path to the Perch. With the storm riding the edge of the sky, he needed to be there sooner and by the looks of the storm clouds, their darkening, heavy weight would not hold for long.

As lightning continued to arc across the sky, illuminating his way in intervals, each step grew more precarious as the small stones beneath his feet crumbled and the incline grew steeper. Halfway up the rocky path, the heavens opened up, unleashing the storm in all its fury, pelting Gararic with sleet and rain and soaking through his garments within moments.

Thor’s Hammer! He quickened his pace, all the while keeping the opening to the cave in sight.

In a flash of light bright enough to warm the heavens, a shadow appeared in the opening of the cave.

He paused to watch the light dance around the mountain, giving him an excellent view of the cave’s opening. Staring in disbelief, he cursed Dianaria freely. “Witch! I swear by Odin’s blood, if you have brought this storm to torment me, I will kill you with my bare hands.” His roar echoed off the mountain.

Is that not your wish?

Startled, Gararic turned on the trail, certain he would find her on the path beside him. But the path he climbed was empty. No one followed up the winding rocky pathway. No one could be seen in the valley below.

He reached for the hilt of his sword, certain the devil’s army was on his trail. When he looked back to the opening of the cave, it too was empty. He stood silent on the path; the icy rain sluiced down upon him, staring at the empty opening of the cave in disbelief.

“What do you know of what I wish, Witch?”

The wind silently whispered her seductive reply. Come and tell me, Gararic, Leader of the Chenia River Clan. Leader of the Wolf People of Elnorn. There are many things to know this night.

Chills of desire flowed over Gararic; her soft words danced over his body. “I’ll not barter with a dead woman!” He tightened his grip on his sword, angered at his body’s response to her.

Are you so sure? Your father was not so quick to turn me away. Her voice was sultry as a moonlit night.

Gararic cursed under his breath. An image of her in all her naked beauty, alone in the creek with winter surrounding her, instantly filled his mind. Cursing himself for a fool, he tried to let his anger rule him and turned his thoughts to his father’s death. He tried to let his rage turn to molten lava and spread through his veins, knowing it was the one thing that would keep her from affecting him.

She had killed his father. She sought to kill his people. Yet even now, she wished to barter with him for his soul. If he wished to be the victor of this battle, he could not let his baser needs affect him. She would use her womanly wiles against him if she could. And that he could not allow if he wished to live.

Amazed at her audacity, he vowed he would defeat her. He would see who was more cunning; the Witch, or the warrior. Aye, he would play her game. But it was a game that he was certain she would never win.

Bounding up the path, his anger fueling his every step, Gararic hastily made his way up the remaining length of the mountain through the snow, ice, and rain. By the time he finally reached the entrance, there was no sign of Dianaria, the cave appearing as dark as his mood.

“Too afraid to face me, I see?” He wiped the rain from his face and wrung it from the length of his sable hair.

The back of the cave burst into a brilliant red flame. Gararic jumped back, drawing his sword before him. The fire died down to a single flame. He was able to see the shadow of a woman reflected on the wall of the cave. Next to the fire stood the Witch, in all her dark glory.

At first he was unsure if she was real or another image, this time from a waking dream. His eyes narrowed, taking in the voluptuous figure before him. With her back to him, besides her lush curves, he could see the rich fall of her waist-length black hair.

She wore no cloak, and through the length and thickness of her hair he could see the glorious stretch of her legs, encased in boots to her knees. He recalled the visions from his dreams, and wondered absently if she ever wore clothes. Her feminine laughter startled him from his reverie.

“Do you intend to stand in the cold all night, warrior?” Her voice was soft and sweet as a gently flowing brook.

About the Author: K.A. M’Lady lives in the ‘burbs of Chicago with her husband, her three children, and her beagle, Chevy. She’s gone to school to be a business assistant, a criminal investigator, and an insurance agent, but she’s more at home lost in the pages of mythology, myth, and fiction, in the worlds of possibility, with all the dark creatures that the night can hold. And she’s happily

dragging her husband right along with her — though he questions her sanity at times.

You can find more of her mayhem on her website — www.kamlady.net. Or feel free to drop her a line — mladyfair12@yahoo.com. Sometimes, she does come out of the Darkness to answer her e-mail. http://www.kamlady.net/ http://kamladyotherworld.blogspot.com/ http://www.facebook.com/kamlady http://www.facebook.com/FaithSavageDemonHuntress http://www.mojocastle.com

How did you start writing erotica?

I didn’t plan to write erotic romance. After publishing a few books I decided to write a trilogy featuring bisexual characters, and that led to writing ménages. Now I have a hard time plotting books with couples instead of trios.

What erotic authors do you enjoy reading?

Tiffany Reisz signed my chest at a conference once. With a Sharpie. There are pictures. Morgan Hawke’s V ictorious Star was my first ebook and erotic romance, so it has a special place in my heart. I love Angela Knight. I recently read The Boss by Abigail Barnette, and that was very good.

Who is your favourite character from one of your stories and why?

They’re all my favorite—that’s like asking a parent to pick their favorite child. I love Lizzy in Bite Me, which is why she has all the best lines. The bickering with her inner demon was a ton of fun to write, and it allowed me to use a lot of snark.

Do your nearest and dearest know what you do, and if so, what was their reaction when they found out?

Yes. I don’t have a pen name, so there’s no hiding. When my first erotic romance released I tried to discourage my family from reading it, but of course they did anyway. They don’t mind. My parents come to my book signings.

What was your ideal career when you were a child?

I always wanted to be a writer. According to my mother I wrote my first story when I was 3 years old.

What’s the best writing tip you’ve ever been given?

Give yourself permission to put garbage on the page, because you can fix it later in editing. You can’t edit a blank page, and it’s never going to be perfect in the first draft. Focus on getting words on the page.

If you get writer’s block when you’re writing, how do you get around it?

I use brackets. When I’m caught on something—a scene, or naming a character—I leave the problem in brackets and move on. Like [fight scene here] or [Second Henchman].

What’s your favourite genre within erotica and why?

I think reading V ictorious Star left me with an enduring love of erotic sci-fi. There’s so much oh my potential when dealing with alien cultures and anatomy. But that can also be said for paranormal erotica, because vampires have centuries to perfect their technique, and shapeshifters have super-human stamina.

Bite Me Robyn Bachar Genre: Erotic paranormal romance Publisher: Samhain Publishing Date of Publication: March 17, 2015 ISBN: 978-1-61922-457-5 ASIN: Number of pages: 211 Word Count: 80k

Cover Artist: Kanaxa Book Description: Consumed by the need to feed…

After an out-of-control spell triggers the zombie apocalypse, Lizzy Addams is left in the ruins of Chicago with only the slightly unhinged commentary—and endless erotic appetites—of her inner demon for company. Her blood supply dwindling, she is forced to find survivors to feed from, or die trying.

Officer Angela Kinney was on duty when hungry corpses overwhelmed the city. The survivors look to her for leadership, but nothing prepared her for a beautiful monster who offers safety in exchange for blood.

Sean MacMillan never expected to see Lizzy again after she rejected his attempts to lure her back to the vampire fold. But with his flock threatened by the horde and his murderous vampire brother, Lizzy is the only one he can trust to keep them safe.

The veil of secrecy shrouding the supernatural world torn apart, humanity’s only hope is to forge an alliance with vampires, werewolves, and things that go bump in the night. Though accepting their aid could be a devil’s bargain that puts humans at the bottom of the food chain.

Warning: Contains vampire orgies, angsty demon sex, a frisky lesbian werewolf, light kink, and enough sex toys to start a store.

Available at Amazon BN iTunes Kobo Samhain Publishing Excerpt: We emerged from the coffin to find a note taped to the inside of my closet door, with the instructions, “Sean, read this first.”

No good would come of that. Irritated, I handed him the note and opened the door. I emerged into an empty, silent bedroom. Blinking in confusion, I paused after a few steps. No flock, no werewolves and no one seated at my computer. The door was shut and locked, and my stomach dropped as I was blasted by an icy wave of fear.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, whirling on Sean.

He stood in the doorway to the closet, lean and so tall he nearly scraped the doorframe. Sean studied me silently, his face a placid mask, and then he slowly unbuttoned the jacket he’d just donned and set it aside.

“Sean…” My voice dropped in warning as he began unbuttoning his shirt. I growled for added effect, but he continued, stripping the shirt and then the undershirt beneath until he was bare-chested.

He didn’t seem interested or aroused—Sean looked like a man being led to the gallows. I growled again, but instead of a threat it was a sound of interest voice by my stirring demon. She was captivated by the landscape of pale skin across his toned abs, wondering what his skin would feel like beneath our fingertips.

“Lean and strong, like our Athena. Wouldn’t they make a striking pair in our bed?”

“Elizabeth, come here,” Sean ordered.

I was halfway to him before I realized what had happened—anger at falling so easily into the reflex warred with my demon’s desire to obey. With a snarl I froze, planting my feet in a fighting stance just out of arm’s reach.

“What the fuck is going on?” I snapped.

About the Author: Robyn Bachar enjoys writing stories with soul mates, swords, spaceships, vampires, and gratuitous violence against the kitchen sink. Her paranormal romance Bad Witch series, historical paranormal romance series Bad Witch: The Emily Chronicles, and spicy space opera romance trilogy Cy’ren Rising are available from Samhain Publishing.

Her books have finaled in PRISM Contest for Published Authors, the Passionate Plume Contest, and twice in the EPIC eBook Awards.

As a gamer, Robyn has spent many hours rolling dice, playing rock-paper-scissors, and slaying creatures in mmorpgs.

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