The Reckless Union Monica Murphy (Arranged Marriage, #3) Publication date: August 16th 2022 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
Our marriage may look like a fairytale, but outside forces threaten to tear us apart. Don’t they realize that nothing will keep me apart from Charlotte? Not my family. Not hers either.
What started out as a relationship in name only has evolved into something much more. Something deeper. And when Charlotte is taken from me, I launch into action, determined to rescue her.
She’s mine. Nothing is going to stop me from being with her.
Not a damn thing.
Welcome to the Midnight Dynasty… The warring Morelli and Constantine families have enough bad blood to fill an ocean, and their brand new stories will be told by your favorite dangerous romance authors.
WARNING: This book is intended for readers eighteen years old and over. It contains material that some readers could find disturbing. Enter at your own risk…
All I want to do is take care of Charlotte, but I don’t know how.
Instead, I wait for her cues, watching her carefully as we walk through the lobby, her gaze zipping everywhere, as if she fully expects that jackass to jump out of a dark corner and snatch her from me. Thanks to the late hour, the lobby is quiet and empty. Only a single security guard is on shift and he nods at the both of us as we walk past the desk he sits behind, completely oblivious to the chaos from earlier.
Lucky guy.
The ride in the elevator is quiet. Charlotte’s face is tear streaked, her eyes red and her cheeks blotchy and I’m tempted to yank her into my arms. Hold her close and whisper words of comfort to her, but I don’t because what exactly would I say?
I’m at a complete loss, which is unlike me. I have something to say for every situation, but apparently, not this one.
We exit the elevator in silence and I unlock the apartment door. Doja comes running, a streak of furry black headed straight for her owner and Charlotte bends down to scoop the cat into her arms and hold her close.
“I missed you so much, Doja. I did,” Charlotte coos, Doja’s purring so loud she reminds me of the Chevelle’s engine.
“Oh, Miss Charlotte. You’re home.”
We both glance up to find Jasper standing in the middle of the living room, his hand resting on his chest, over his heart. Looking ready to keel over in utter relief. They lock eyes and Charlotte bursts into tears, scurrying over to him so he can hug both her and Doja close, offering comfort in murmured words and fatherly squeezes.
I watch them, still at a loss, envious of the easy relationship they share, which is ridiculous on my part. He’s her butler and familiar to her, but he’s also more than that. He’s the parental figure she never really got from her actual father growing up. Jasper is the one man she could count on. The one who took care of her from a young age. Who watched over her and made sure she was always safe.
I bet he hates that she ran off to Paris and had such a disastrous experience with that McFucker. He might even hate that dude as much as I do. Jasper and I, we have a lot in common.
We always want the best for Charlotte.
“Shall I draw a bath for you?” Jasper asks her at one point, minutes after they’ve finally withdrawn from each other and she’s still cuddling with Doja. I shake my head at him.
“I’ll take care of her tonight. You go get some rest,” I tell him.
Jasper sends me an appreciative look. “Thank you, sir, for finding her. I was worried. And guilt ridden.”
“Oh Jasper.” Charlotte wraps him up in another hug, holding him close with Doja wedged between them before she releases him. “Don’t feel guilty. I was the dumb one who went down to meet Seamus without my phone.”
I visibly flinch at her saying his name out loud and it’s as if she realizes it a second too late, her guilty glance flitting to mine before she looks away.
“And without me,” Jasper reminds her.
That old softy would’ve tipped right over the moment McFartlick grabbed Charlotte but I just smile and humor him. I don’t want him feeling guilty. It’s not his fault Charlotte was abducted, even though he blames himself.
I take a lot of that blame too. I should’ve come early. Why did I think Jasper could protect her? He’s done a pretty solid job so far, but she’s never dealt with a serious threat before.
And that asshole who used and abused her and fucking abducted her is a serious damn threat.
Author Bio:
Monica Murphy is a New York Times, USA Today and international bestselling author. She writes new adult, young adult and contemporary romance.
She is a wife and a mother of three who lives in central California on fourteen acres in the middle of nowhere, along with their four cats and one crazy dog. She’s a firm believer in happy endings, though she will admit to sometimes putting her characters through tough, angst-filled moments before they finally get that hard won HEA.
Monica is also known as USA Today bestselling romance author Karen Erickson (http://karenerickson.com).
The Unveiling of Polly Forrest by Charlotte Whitney
GENRE: Historical Mystery
BLURB
Rural
Michigan, 1934.
During the throes of
the Great Depression Polly marries for money. After her husband Sam dies in a
bizarre farm accident, new bride Polly assumes she is set to pursue her dream
of opening a hat-making business. Instead, she becomes the prime suspect in
Sam’s murder. Secrets abound and even Polly’s family can’t figure out the
truth.
EXCERPT
Sunday, August 19, 1934
Having no choice, I began climbing the exterior ladder that
ran up the height of the silo. I got up five or six rungs before my fear of
heights kicked in. My body started shaking and I willed myself not to look
down. I kept putting one foot above the other. The towel around my wounded
right arm had loosened and I let it fall to the ground, not wanting to remove
my other hand from the rung.
Every step required my mind telling my arms and legs to
move. My hands were jittering and I could hardly grip the ladder. You can do
this, I told myself. You can. You can.
“Keep going.” His
voice was piercing.
I willed my feet to move up the ladder. My body convulsed. I
was about five rungs from the top when I stopped. Reason told me I needed to
quit shaking and get my body under control or I would fall. Then it occurred to
me. He’s not going to push me into the soft silage. He’s going to knock me off
the top of the ladder down to the hard earth.
Dried flower on concrete stone surface background. Flat lay, top view, minimal style concept. Greeting card or web banner mockup for wedding anniversary, birthday, womens day.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Charlotte Whitney is the author of historical fiction set during the Great Depression in the rural Midwest. Her most recent work, The Unveiling of Polly Forrest, a stand-alone historical mystery follows her groundbreaking novel, Threads A Depression-Era Tale, which was met with both critical acclaim and commercial success. She received a master’s degree in English at the University of Michigan, and after a short stint of teaching at two community colleges, worked at the University of Michigan where she was an associate director of the Lloyd Scholars for Writing and the Arts. Currently living in Arizona with her husband and two dogs she enjoys hiking, bicycling, swimming, and yoga.
Hiding from the Truth AB Medley (Finding the Truth Series, #2) Publication date: August 16th 2022 Genres: Adult, Romance, Suspense
Secrets don’t keep.
Lucy’s are life-changing and dangerous.
Her darkest one is an abusive ex who will stop at nothing to control her, leaving only a smoking ember of who she used to be.
She thinks she’s alone in the battle to get her life back.
Then she meets Tate.
The one man who seems to tear down every defense she’s built around her heart.
The problem is…he doesn’t want a relationship and she wants it all.
Tate’s no stranger to secrets, but he’s content until he meets her.
At first sight, he’s enamored by Lucy.
But the more he discovers, the deadlier her truth becomes.
Now he’s determined to keep her safe whether she wants his help or not.
Suddenly—the ice around his heart is melting, leaving him helpless to fight his feelings for her.
Can they overcome their pasts and the real danger they face to give love a fighting chance, or will they keep hiding from the truth?
He steps toward me and hesitates. “Call me if you need me…or anything at all. I’m not
sure I want to leave you after the night you’ve had.” His blue eyes bore into mine, searching for the truth. A truth I’m not willing to tell just yet. “We’re still going to talk. You need to tell me what happened.” His features harden as if he’s masking anger.
“Tate—” I start but he cuts me off by closing the space between us and brushes the back of his hand over my cheek.
“Don’t overthink it, Lucy. You’re safe here with me. You can trust me.” I swallow against the burning in my throat as I try to stifle the urge to cry. This man is out of his mind if he thinks I can trust him. I trust he won’t physically hurt me, but emotionally is a different matter altogether. Not to mention, he doesn’t need to get in the middle of my mess. He barely knows me.
He drops his hand and walks away. I stay still, my feet planted firmly on the hardwood. Rocky jumps down and sits at my feet, as if sensing my pain.
I lower to my knees, and he licks my cheek. “Thanks, Rocky. I can trust you can’t I, buddy?” I scratch him behind the ears again. His tail thumps the hardwood as I hear my phone beep. I check it and almost drop it. My dad, well Steve. Why is he texting me? I quickly check the message.
Dad: Hey Lucy. I just talked to your mom. Can I call you?
Me: Sure.
Almost immediately, my phone rings. “Hello?”
“Hey, honey. Your mom told me what happened. Are you okay?” He sounds like he did before he left. Why does he care now? I don’t get it. I’m getting whiplash from all the men in my life.
“I’ve been better, but I’ll be fine…always am. You taught me I had to be,” I say hoping he’ll feel even the slightest bit of remorse for how he left me.
“I’m sorry, Lucy, truly. I’m coming home to see your mom—and you, if you’ll let me.” I reach for the bed to make sure it’s there to catch my weight. When I drop onto it, I can’t stop the angry tear sliding down my cheek. I won’t let him hurt me again, and facing him, especially now, is not something I’m sure I can do. I swallow and compose myself enough to answer.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to process literally everything in my life right now. You walked out on me and didn’t look back. What do you want? I don’t understand why you want to see us.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds. “Lucy, we need to talk. All of us.”
“Whatever. I have to go.” I hang up before he can say anything else, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling in shock for a few minutes before deciding to shower and call it a night. I get everything in the bathroom ready and take a quick shower. When I get out, I wipe the steam from the mirror and see the fading bruises on my arms and even my inner thighs. I have one on my ribs too.
I lean in closer and examine my face. When I look myself in the eye, I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s weak. She’s haunted, beaten, and battered as much on the inside as the out. She doesn’t know who she can trust. She’s lost her spark.
Who am I now? Am I Steve McCree’s daughter, the one who wasn’t enough for her dad? Am I Rhett Davis’s daughter, the one claimed to be cherished but kept secret? Am I Phoebe McCree’s daughter, the woman who stepped out on her husband and got pregnant? The woman who lied to keep her family together, but lost it anyway?
Am I the girl Taylor tore down piece by piece and left broken? My whole life is full of secrets and lies and broken dreams. Where do I go from here? I don’t know any of the answers, but I do know—hiding the truth is killing me.
Author Bio:
A.B. Medley lives in Tennessee with the love of her life and two sons. Her husband stole her heart when she was sixteen and their relationship is one of those meant to be love stories you find in magazines and novels.
She is a dental hygienist who loves to read and has always dabbled in writing. When she’s not making people’s smiles shine, she enjoys belting out songs with her boys, dancing, raspberries, baseball, and anything vintage. Like any proper Tennessean, Sundrop is her drink of choice.
She loves her family and friends fiercely and believes in always chasing your dreams.
Deception in the Truth is her debut novel—but now she’s hooked, and there’s more to come!
I love to invite authors to share their thoughts and am so happy to have Marielle S Smith here today to share five of her favorite gratitude quotes.
Five of my favourite
gratitude quotes
With two gratitude journals out there, I’ve gathered
a fair collection of gratitude quotes. In today’s post, I’ll be sharing some of my favourite quotes from both the first and
second volume of the 365 Days of Gratitude Journal.
Life
is a series of thousands of tiny miracles. Notice them.
—Roald Dahl
I just
love this quote and it’s so in line with the one by Albert Einstein I included
in the introduction to the journal: ‘There are only two ways
to live your life. One is as though nothing
is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a
miracle.’
Each time I
hear or read any of these two quotes, my perspective instantly shifts to
something much lighter and joyful and I can’t help but smile.
The more grateful I am, the more beauty I see.
—Mary Davis
There’s a reason I put this quote on the cover of the second volume—it
hits home every time. I can’t even put my finger on why, it just does. And I
know from experience just how truthful this statement is, which is why I get a
little bit frustrated with myself each time there’s a lull in my gratitude
practice.
It’s a good thing it’s so easy to get back into it!
We should certainly count our blessings, but we
should also make our blessings count.
—Neal A. Maxwell
Back in my
student days, I had a conversation with my supervisor about privilege. As a
relatively privileged woman—I’m white, cisgender, able-bodied, I can pass as
straight, I was getting a higher education—I struggled with those privileges
because it all felt a little unfair to me.
I’ll never
forget how she responded. She said: ‘There’s no point in feeling bad or guilty
about where you came from, because that’s beyond your control. But what you can
do is use whatever privilege you happen to have to help dismantle the system
that created these privileges in the first place.’
This quote
reminds me of that conversation and that I should really use all of my
blessings, including my privileges, for the greater good.
When you
focus on the good, the good gets better.
—Abraham Hicks
Whether this is
actually true, I couldn’t tell you, but it’s definitely something I want to
believe. At the very least, this quote reminds me to focus on the good things
that are happening in my life instead of all the things I’m not as thrilled
about, and that always makes me feel better instantly.
We’re all so busy chasing the extraordinary that we forget to stop and
be grateful for the ordinary.
—Brené Brown
This quote
is, in a nutshell, why I decided to create a gratitude journal in the first
place. We tend to celebrate and express gratitude over the big milestones and
large blessings in our lives, but the key to living a grateful life is to learn
to notice and be thankful for all those teeny tiny things we so easily take for
granted.
What are you grateful for today? Can you name
one thin
Thanks so much for being here today, Michelle. I hope everyone enjoyed the post.
365 Days of Gratitude Journal by Mariëlle S. Smith
GENRE: Non-fiction; self-help
BLURB
***
Now available in black-and-white AND full colour! ***
‘The more grateful I am, the more beauty I see.’ Mary Davis
Gratitude is not just about ATTITUDE.
Gratitude is about PRACTICE.
But how do you create a gratitude practice that sticks?
After the success of her first 365 Days of Gratitude Journal, writing coach
Mariëlle S. Smith brings you Volume 2. Same journal but with an entirely
different look!
After years of barely surviving her own emotional minefield, Mariëlle
discovered the transformative power of practising gratitude. But, like no one
else, she knows that cultivating an attitude of gratitude is easier said than
done.
365 Days of Gratitude, Vol. 2 is an undated, guided journal. Complete with
inspiring quotes, daily prompts, and recurring check-ins, it was designed to
help you create a sustainable gratitude practice too.
Commit to the life-changing power of gratitude today and order your copy now!
AUTHOR Bio and Links
Mariëlle
S. Smith is a writer, writing coach, and editor. She lives in Cyprus, where she
organises private writer’s retreats, is inspired 24/7, and feeds more stray
cats than she can count.
The tortured spirits of the dead haunt a Regency-era English manor—but the true danger lies in the land of the living in the third installment in the Lily Adler mysteries, perfect for fans of Deanna Raybourn.
Regency widow Lily Adler is looking forward to spending the autumn away from the social whirl of London. When she arrives in Hampshire with her friends, the Carroways, she doesn’t expect much more than a quiet country visit and the chance to spend time with her charming new acquaintance, Matthew Spencer.
But something odd is afoot in the small country village. A ghost has taken up residence in the Belleford manor, a lady in grey who wanders the halls at night, weeping and wailing. Half the servants have left in terror, but the family seems delighted with the notoriety that their ghost provides. Intrigued by this spectral guest, Lily and her party immediately make plans to visit Belleford.
They arrive at the manor the next morning ready to be entertained—only to find that tragedy has struck. The matriarch of the family has just been found killed in her bed.
The dead woman’s family is convinced that the ghost is responsible. Lily is determined to learn the truth before another victim turns up—but could she be next in line for the Great Beyond?
Book Details:
Genre: Historical Mystery Published by: Crooked Lane Books Publication Date: August 9th 2022 Number of Pages: 352 ISBN: 1639100784 (ISBN13: 9781639100781) Series: Lily Adler Mystery #3 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Bookshop.org
Read an excerpt:
As they walked, Mr. Wright fell in step next to Ofelia. “Have you ever seen a ghost before, Lady Carroway?”
“I have not,” she replied, as polite as ever in spite of the hint of skepticism in her voice. “Pray, what does it look like?”
“Like a lady in white and gray,” he said, and Lily was surprised to see how serious his expression was. His frivolous, unctuous manner had dropped away, and he shivered a little as he gestured toward the windows. “No one has seen her face. The first time I saw her she was standing right there, bathed in moonlight, when I was returning from a late night in the village. And my sister saw her in the early morning only two days ago. Some nights, we have heard her wails echoing through the halls, even when she is nowhere to be seen.”
Lily exchanged a look with her aunt, who seemed surprised by the detail in Thomas Wright’s story and the quaver in his voice. Either he believed wholeheartedly in his ghost, or he was putting on a very convincing performance for his audience.
“And what does she do?” Ofelia asked, sounding a little more somber now, as they drew
to a halt in front of the windows. The small party looked around the corner of the hall. It was unremarkable enough, with several large paintings, and a tall, handsome curio cabinet standing in an alcove. An old-fashioned tapestry hung across one wall, though it was worn and faded enough that it was hard to tell exactly what picture it had originally presented.
“Nothing, so far,” Mr. Wright said, a sort of forced theatricality in his voice that left Lily puzzled.
She had expected, based on what Mr. Spencer had said the night before, to find an eager showman in Thomas Wright, ready to bask in the attention of curious neighbors, not a true believer in the supernatural. Glancing at Mr. Spencer out of the corner of her eye, she thought he looked equally puzzled.
“She stands and weeps, or floats around the hall and wails. Usually, if someone tries to draw close, she vanishes. But last month—” Mr. Wright’s voice dropped a little. He still glanced
uneasily toward the other end of the hall, as if momentarily distracted or looking for someone, before quickly returning his attention to his audience. “Last month she became angry when one of our housemaids came upon her unexpectedly. The lady in gray pursued her down the hall, wailing. Poor Etta was so scared that she fell down the stairs in her haste to get away. That
was when our servants started leaving.”
“I trust the housemaid has recovered?” Mr. Spencer asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
“She has,” Mr. Wright replied. “But no one has tried to approach the lady in gray again. We think she wishes to be left alone.”
“Well,” Lily said, attempting a return to lightness, “as far as ghosts go, that sounds reasonable enough. I confess I feel that way often enough myself, especially after too many busy nights in a row.”
Ofelia, who had been looking a little wide-eyed, giggled, and Mr. Spencer quickly covered a cough that might have been a chuckle.
Mr. Wright scowled, his expression halfway between unease and displeasure. “I take it you are not a woman who believes in ghosts, Mrs. Adler?”
“I have never had the opportunity to find out whether or not I am,” Lily replied. “The homes I have lived in have all been stubbornly unhaunted.”
“For your sake, madam, I hope they remain that way,” Mr. Wright said. There was an unexpected note of resignation in his voice as he added, “It is not a comfortable thing to live with.”
“I would have thought you to be fond of yours, sir,” Lily said. “If you dislike her so, why go to the trouble of showing visitors around and telling them the story?”
Mr. Wright smiled, some of the showman creeping back into his manner. “Because you are here, dear ladies. And how could I resist such a beautiful audience?”
“Tell me, has your family any idea who this lady in gray might be?” Lily’s aunt asked politely.
He nodded, his voice dropping even further, and they all reflexively drew closer to hear what he was saying. “We each have our own theory, of course,” he said. “I believe it is my father’s great-aunt, Tabitha, whose bedroom was just this way. If you would care to see the spot?” He held out his arm to Ofelia, who took it. Mr. Wright, engrossed in his story once more, turned to lead them down the closest passage. “Tabitha died there some fifty years ago, of a broken heart, they say, after news arrived of the death of her betrothed in the colonies—”
His story was suddenly cut off by screaming. Not a single shriek of surprise or dismay, but a cry that seemed to go on without ceasing. Thomas Wright froze, the genial smile dropping from his face in shock. “Selina?” he called.
The screaming continued, growing more hysterical. Dropping Ofelia’s arm, he ran toward the sound, which was coming from the far hallway, past the stairs. The others, stunned into stillness, stared at each other, unsure what to do.
“I think it’s Miss Wright,” Mr. Spencer said, all traces of merriment gone from his face. “Wait here—I shall see if they need any assistance.” He made to go after, but Thomas Wright was already returning, rushing down the hall next to another man, who was carrying the screaming woman.
“The parlor, just next to you, Spencer!” Mr. Wright called. “Open the door!”
Mr. Spencer, the closest to the door, flung it open, and the hysterical woman was carried in. She was laid on a chaise longue in the middle of the dim little room, Mr. Spencer stepping forward to help settle her as the man who had carried her stepped back. Lily, glancing
around as she and the other ladies crowded through the door, thought it looked like a space reserved for the family’s private use, which made sense on an upper floor. Thomas Wright knelt next to the hysterical woman for a moment, clasping her hands.
“Selina?” he said loudly. But she kept screaming, her eyes wide and darting about the room without seeing anything. Judging by the round cheeks and dark hair they both shared, Lily thought she must be his sister. Whether they had other features in common was hard to tell when Selina Wright was in the middle of hysterics.
“Miss Wright?” Matthew Spencer tried giving her shoulders a shake. “You must stop this at once!”
But she clearly could not hear either of them. Thomas Wright took a deep breath and looked grim as, with a surprising degree of practicality, he slapped her across the face.
The screams stopped abruptly, her blank expression resolving into one of terror before her eyes latched on her brother. Her face crumpled in misery. “Oh, Thomas!” she sobbed, gasping for breath.
He gave her shoulders a little shake. “Selina, stop this—you must tell me what happened.” But she only shook her head, clutching at his coat with desperate fists and dropping her head against his shoulder, her weeping shaking them both. Mr. Wright turned to the servant who had carried his sister. “Isaiah, what happened to her?”
Isaiah was a young Black man with very short, curly hair and broad shoulders. His plain, dark clothing marked him clearly as a servant, though it was nothing so formal as the livery that
would have been worn in a great house. His wide stance spoke of confidence, and the easy way that Thomas Wright addressed him indicated long service and familiarity.
But there was no confidence on the manservant’s face as he hesitated, gulping visibly and shaking his head. His eyes were wide, and he stumbled over his words as he tried to answer, either unsure how to respond or not wanting to. “It’s . . . it’s Mrs. Wright, sir. She didn’t open her door when we knocked, and Miss Wright . . . she asked me to open it, since no one has the key . . . and she was there, sir—Mrs. Wright. She was there but she wasn’t moving. There was nothing we could do, but there was no one else there what could have done it. She’s dead, sir,” he finished in a rush. “Mrs. Wright is dead. She was killed in the night.”
Beside her, Lily heard Ofelia gasp, though she didn’t turn to look at her friend. Mr. Spencer looked up, his dark eyes wide as he met Lily’s from across the room. She stared back at him, frozen in shock, unable to believe what she had just heard.
“Killed?” Thomas Wright demanded, his voice rising with his own disbelief and his arms tightening around his sister.
“It killed her, Thomas,” Selina Wright said, raising her head at last. Now that her hysterics had faded, her cheeks had gone ashen with fear. “There was no one else who could have entered that room. The lady in gray killed our mother.”
***
Excerpt from Death at the Manor by Katharine Schellman. Copyright 2022 by Katharine Schellman. Reproduced with permission from Katharine Schellman. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Katharine Schellman is a former actor, one-time political consultant, and now the author of the Lily Adler Mysteries and the Nightingale Mysteries. Her debut novel, The Body in the Garden, was one of Suspense Magazine’s Best Books of 2020 and led to her being named one of BookPage’s 16 Women to Watch in 2020. Her second novel, Silence in the Library, was praised as “worthy of Agatha Christie or Rex Stout.” (Library Journal, starred review) Katharine lives and writes in the mountains of Virginia in the company of her husband, children, and the many houseplants she keeps accidentally murdering.
Jester Brielle D. Porter Publication date: August 9th 2022 Genres: Fantasy, Romance, Young Adult
What happens in Oasis, stays in Oasis.
Lisette’s father killed the King. His execution leaves Lisette alone, disgraced, and without the magic he intended to pass on to her. In Oasis, that’s a problem. Glutted with enchanted performers, Oasis is a sin city where courtiers pay in gold to drink, gamble, and above all, be entertained. To survive on its competitive streets, Lisette peddles paltry illusions in place of magic.
Desperate to prove herself, Lisette enters into a deadly competition to be chosen as the highest-ranked magician in the world, the Queen’s Jester. But her rival, the irritatingly handsome Luc, possesses the one thing Lisette does not—real magic. Lisette will do anything to win, but when evidence implicating the Queen in her husband’s murder surfaces, Lisette must choose between redeeming her family name, or seizing the fame she’s hungered for her entire life.
A group of tourists has gathered to watch me throw knives at a shopboy. They’ve come here for magic; I’ve kept them here with misdirection and lies. Maybe it’s not magic exactly, but it is undeniably entertaining watching my unwilling assistant flinch every time the knife point gets too close to his groin.
I hold the knife steady, aiming, watching his limp hair flop as the wooden wheel he’s strapped to slowly rotates.
Stefan lets out a whimper, and I toss him a smile. He was a lot braver in the shop where I’d found him, flirting as he bagged my books. It hadn’t been hard to trick him into volunteering.
The crowd jeers.
“Aim lower!”
“Aim higher! Maim his ugly face!”
“Throw three at once!”
“Mirage, don’t you dare!” Stefan shouts.
The nighttime crowd is always hungrier for violence. I hold up my hands placatingly.
“Obviously, I can’t throw three knives at once. That would be dangerous and highly irresponsible…”
There are a couple of groans, but my reputation must precede me, because there are a few whoops and chuckles thrown in as well. With a sweep, I pull my deadliest knife from my belt, the one with the wicked serrated edge, brandishing it for the crowd.
“But I think we can spice things up a bit!”
I stab the knife into a vat of oil, the shimmering liquid sliding down the tang of the blade. Then, with a flourish, I sweep it through a nearby torch. Flame devours the knife. The crowd roars its approval. Stefan pales.
The hilt burns in my hand, throwing off sparks, as I wonder if perhaps I’ve gone too far. I’ve only tried this a few times. And the jackrabbit I had caught to practice with wasn’t even good to eat after, blackened to an inedible crisp.
Either way, I’ll give them a show.
Author Bio:
Brielle D. Porter decided to become a writer after a well-meaning elementary school teacher told her she had a gift for it. Stolen moments under the covers reading anything from Harry Potter to William Goldman solidified the desire to tell stories herself one day. Jester is her debut novel.
Brielle lives with her husband and three sons on a lavender farm in Northern Idaho. When she’s not writing, she can be found running and beekeeping. Only ask her about her hobbies if you have plenty of time to spare.
I love to give authors a podium and the freedom to share whatever they like. I found Vince’s Guest Post to be interesting and it got me thinking….
Guest Blog Post
Which two authors would I have dinner with?
Ernest Hemingway and Taylor Caldwell have been
known for their inspiring and exceptional writing. So, what would it be like to
have dinner with them?
Let the fantasy begin …
As we waited for our drinks, I leaned over to
Ernest. “Put that cigar away,” I whispered, to avoid embarrassment.
“It’s Papa,” he replied in his usual charismatic
tone. “I told you many times, call me Papa. And this is no ordinary cigar. It’s
a Cuban puro.”
“I know what it is,” I said as my eyes followed
the waft of smoke charging towards me like one of the bulls from his book, The
Sun Also Rises. I moved my head to the side and added, “This is not El
Floridity and it’s not 1952. It’s 2022 in Sotto Sotto, Toronto. You remember
Toronto, don’t you?”
“Of course,
I do,” Ernest said as he extinguished his cigar. “The Toronto Star. I started there
as a freelancer and eventually worked as a foreign correspondent in Europe
writing stories about post-WWI conditions.”
I looked over to Taylor. She wasn’t a bit annoyed.
The curl of her lip suggested she rather enjoyed the exchange and would have
also enjoyed a Cuban cigar.
Our server came with our drinks. “Two daquiris,” he
said. Ernest smiled and tapped his finger on a space on the
table in front of him. “Martini for you, madam. And Negroni for you, sir.” We
toasted to friendship and writing and as the food and drinks came in plenty, so
did the conversation.
“Congratulations,” Taylor said, raising her glass
to me. “I thoroughly enjoyed reading The Final Crossing. Well done.”
“As did I,” Ernest said. I thanked them, smiled,
and took a sip of my Negroni.
Then Taylor turned to Ernest. “Papa, you should
have added more religious themes in your books.”
“You mean like your stories?”
“You know very well I have written on a broad range
of subjects, not just stories related to real historical events or persons. I
do not need to defend my work.”
Ernest smiled and raised his glass in tribute of her
accomplishments. It was probably more in his appreciation of a woman who
exemplified his own persona – strong-minded, adventurous, and passionate about her
craft. The wise fisherman was no match for this marlin, at least not this time.
“And don’t forget,” I said. “While you published The
Old Man and The Sea in 1952, for which you later won the Nobel Prize,
Taylor had written The Devil’s Advocate, set in
a dystopia where North America came under Communist rule.”
Ernest leaned back in his chair and took another sip of
his drink. Then he began to talk about his time in Cuba and in Paris and in
Spain. Taylor raised her hand. Ernest
stopped and remained
quiet. She then leaned forward towards him and said, “Don’t let the past steal
your present.”
The place fell in deafening silence as if everyone
had heard our conversation. I broke the stillness with my own curiosity about
their work.
“Papa, did writing come easy for you?” He shifted
in his seat and cleared his throat as if ready to respond in an interview with
a seasoned journalist.
“Writing is something that you can never do as well
as it can be done,” he said. “It is a perpetual challenge, and it is more
difficult than anything else that I have ever done—so I do it. And it makes me
happy when I do it well.”
Then I turned to Taylor. “You have always been
outspoken which is reflected in your intricately plotted, suspenseful stories
depicting family tensions. Much of this stemmed from your childhood. Would you
agree?”
“To some extent,” she replied. “As you know, I
emigrated to the U.S. with my parents and younger brother in 1907. Shortly
after my father died and the family struggled. I think I tapped into those
experiences and wrote them in my stories.”
“I believe you started to write at the age of eight
and wrote your first novel when you were twelve.”
She smiled. Then, as if the memories surfaced, her
smile faded. “My ill health prevented me from doing many things, except writing
of course. I buried myself in writing and the world knew little about me. Many
presumed I or rather the author, was a man. That was my first editor’s doing,
giving me a pen name. When my identity was eventually made known there was even
some public fuss over it.”
“Did that experience change how you thought about
people?”
“The nature of human beings never changes.
Political fads come and go; theories rise and fall; the scientific truth of
today becomes the discarded error of tomorrow. Man’s ideas change, but not his
inherent nature. That remains.”
My eyes darted towards Ernest who sat with his hand
on his chin, and I could tell he learned something new about Taylor.
“OK, now please humour me,” I said. I reached into
my pocket and pulled out three pens, one for each of us. I then took out a
piece of paper, ripped it in three and distributed them. I had obviously planned
for this moment.
I continued. “If we were stranded on an island and brought
with us only one book, what would it be? Write it down, fold the paper and pass
it to me.”
They were pensive at first. But then, in unison,
they wrote down their answer and handed it to me. I also wrote mine. I unfolded
each one and placed them on the table for us to see which book we would have had
brought with us.
Taylor wrote, The Old Man and The Sea. Ernest
wrote, The Devil’s Advocate. I wrote, The Final Crossing.
We laughed and laughed. We ate and drank. We
savoured the evening until the place had emptied, except for three revelling
authors.
And the fantasy ended.
What a fun post. I know I have read The Old Man and The Sea, but the others….I’ll be checking. I loved the post and you made it so enjoyable, Vince. Thank you very much.
The Final Crossing: A Tale of Self-Discovery and Adventure by Vince Santoro
GENRE: Historical Fiction
BLURB
In this tale of self-discovery and adventure,
we are connected with a history we’ve come to know as the cradle of
civilization.
Nenshi, an Egyptian house servant, raised in
nobility, is well-schooled, a master huntsman and hungers to be free. His
master agrees to grant his freedom but while the petition is set to be heard,
Nenshi’s indiscretion gets in the way. He is caught in a secret love affair
with a woman above his social status.
As punishment, he is exiled to labour in the Nubian
gold mines. His life turns upside down as he is thrust into a world for which
he had been ill prepared. He escapes from the mines and vows to return to
Thebes, but his attempts push him farther and farther away on a journey that
redefines him – a journey mired with cruelty, bloodshed, and the discovery of a
new deity.
In the end Nenshi learns his freedom has been
granted and must decide whether to return to his homeland or start a new life.
“I greatly enjoyed this well written story by
Vince Santoro. He takes us across the Ancient World
through the protagonist, Nenshi, an exiled Egyptian
servant who struggles with class structure, both around and within himself.
Santoro weaves a story of ideas – a sense of belonging, monotheism, and the
human soul – told through Nenshi’s rite of passage through to his final
crossing. The setting is visually evocative of “spirit of place” as
the novelist and travel writer Lawrence Durrell called it. It’s a story worth
reading.” – Terry Stanfill
Award winning historical fiction author of The Gift
from Fortuny, Realms of Gold, The Blood Remembers and other works.
“Vince Santoro is a gifted storyteller. I
found The Final Crossing difficult to put down because it is
well written. As an historian and author of
non-fiction books, I am impressed with the amount of research that Santoro has
done to prepare this story of adventure and romance set in the ancient Middle
East. The customs, the beliefs and even the character names are all authentic
to that region and era. With so many plot twists and turns, Santoro will keep
you guessing about what might happen next to the protagonist until the very
end!” – John Charles Corrigan
Author of The Red Knight and “Love
Always”
EXCERPT
Twilight was fast approaching, and they returned to the trail.
From a distance they saw an abundance of trees and vegetation that sprung from
the hard soil. Moments later, they heard rushing water. A twisting river
murmured. It called out and invited them to consume its wealth. Nenshi and
Aziza went to explore it.
Aziza stopped and kneeled to examine small flowers in bloom.
On the river’s edge Nenshi bent over and splashed water on his face. He cupped
his hands and drank its cool refreshing offering. Rocks jutted out from the
shallow water. He heard footsteps and threw a glance behind him. Aziza, ran
towards him, as free as the wind blew, eager to jump into the river. Nenshi
screamed from the top of his lungs to warn her.
“Aziza … Aziza … be careful, the water is shallow! There
are rocks!”
Her excitement muffled his warning. Nenshi then stood,
flapped his arms to get her attention. She pushed her legs hard against the
water to run faster until it was just deep enough to jump in.
“Aziza …. Aziza … stop …” Nenshi cried. Aziza took another
step but this time slipped and almost fell. She tried to regain balance and
continued moving forward. Nenshi gasped hoping she realized the danger and
would stop. But she didn’t and it was too late. She slipped again, fell and hit
a rock. Nenshi immediately ran to her, stepping and slipping on rocks that
almost caused him to lose balance. Babak who had heard Nenshi’s cries dashed to
the river. Nenshi crouched over the wet and motionless body.
“Help me get her out,” Nenshi cried out as he lifted her,
propped her head and shoulders in his arms. Blood, washed by the water, dripped
from her head.
AUTHOR Bio and Links
Vince is an Italian-born Canadian who grew up in Toronto,
Canada, and now lives in Pickering, a suburb of Toronto.
In his youth, education and sports became a priority. A private
boys’ school, St. Michael’s College in Toronto, provided the opportunity for
both. He graduated from York University, Toronto, with a degree in history and
a minor in behavioural science.
Vince was always up for new challenges. After completing his
studies, he set his eyes on Europe and played professional basketball in Italy.
When he returned home, he shifted gears and worked in the aerospace industry in
several capacities. The most rewarding was managing internal communications for
a large aircraft manufacturer. It was during this time he decided to hone his
writing skills by studying journalism at Ryerson University, Toronto, and he
had several articles published.
His career in communications along with studies in history and
journalism prepared him to take on his next challenge: to write a book. His
debut novel, The Final Crossing, has been a labour of love, one he worked on
for many years. It reflects life experiences, woven into a story that inspires
and entertains, and perhaps even show the world in a different way.
Aiden
has always felt like an outsider. After the rebel assassin is captured and
imprisoned by the world’s galactic overlords, he awaits execution. Then a mole
working for the occupying regime alerts him to a plot that could destroy the
entire resistance…
Engineering a daring
escape, Aiden’s growing feud with the new rebel leader leaves him out in the
cold and smouldering with resentment. Faced with deceit and betrayals on every
side, he recruits a group of overlooked outcasts and stakes everything on one
last mission.
Can the restless, reckless Aiden take a stand long enough to save humanity from enslavement?
EXCERPT
Nothing. Clean as a whistle. Until my massive hand grasped
hold of something, something which must have blended into its background so
perfectly that I hadn’t even spotted it. Something alive, nestling under the
co-pilot’s seat. I couldn’t believe it. A live gromeline. Trembling, possibly
with fury, and trying in vain to squeeze back. Grabbing my trophy – I could
feel its hot little heart throbbing like an injury against my palm – I hopped
out of the plane so fast that my wound protested.
‘Bully!’
Bully raised one eyebrow. Two would have been overkill.
‘Bully, you are not going to believe this. I found a
gromeline!’ The gromeline – only about fifteen centimetres – bit my finger,
hard, even though I could have easily crushed its entire body with my fist –
and probably would have, had I been a tester, and not merely disguised as one.
Feisty little gromeline. I flicked it lightly with my
sausage-sized finger. When it protested, I growled, ‘Cheese it, munchkin,’
though I could feel it struggling obstreperously against my palm.
Bully was intrigued. ‘Is it genuine?’ ‘Of course it’s
genuine. It just bit me, didn’t it?’
Bully probably considered this no proof. But they’re rarer
than clean air these days and his fascination was obvious. Now gromelines come
from the farthest galaxy so far discovered, can speak any tongue and own
enviable mental powers. They are also brave to the point of stupidity and
ludicrously small. This one was mouse-coloured – they can be spectacular – with
tiny red eyes. Few humans have ever seen one.
AUTHOR Bio and Links
Alice
(Spaulding Taylor) McVeigh has been published by Orion/Hachette in contemporary
fiction, by Unbound Publishing in action/adventure and by Warleigh Hall Press
in Austenesque fiction. Her novels have won Gold Medal/First Place is the
Global, eLit and Pencraft Book Awards, been runner-up in the Independent Press
Awards, finalists in the Eric Hoffer, Rone and Wishing Shelf Book Awards and
selected by Shelf Unbound as one of the “top indies” of 2021. Two of
her novels are currently finalists in the CIBA Book Awards (the Cygnus and
Goethe Awards). Her most recent novel (Harriet: A Jane Austen Variation) was just
selected as Editors’ Pick “outstanding” on Publishers Weekly.
A professional
London cellist, Alice lives in London and Crete with her professor husband:
their only child is completing her Masters in Chinese Literature. They also
share two miniature long-haired dachshunds and an incurable addiction to
tennis.
First off, I love the cover. It makes me think fantasy, but I guess
psychopaths hide behind a mask of their own making, so it fits the
story. I love psychological thrillers and find psychopaths fascinating.
Because of the very effective blurb, a sense of menace lingers on every
page and I am waiting and eager for the bad to begin.
River of Ashes by Alexandrea Weis & Lucas Astor is told from the
psychopath’s point of view, at least some of the time. Oh yeah. I love
seeing the world through his twisted eyes.
Beau is rich, a psychopath and he wants Leslie, though, for the
moment, he’s settled for her sister, Dawn, while Leslie find Derek
perfect and wants nothing to do with the ‘off’ Beau. Her intuition is
spot on.
Beau hides his anger. His motto: Never lose control. One slip…Once
the genie is out of the bottle…All his life, his dad had told him,
“Don’t let them see who you really are.”
WOW. So much heartache and evil, twists and turns. I love books that
get my emotions bubbling, gripping me, making me read until the wee
hours of the morning, having to know…I couldn’t stop.
I always try and figure things out, but it didn’t happen here. I was
surprised at the very end and that rarely happens. I can hardly wait to
see what’s in store for Book II, River Of Wrath, and I plan to be around
for it.
I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of River Of Ashes by Alexandrea Weiss & Lucas Astor.
4 Stars
*Apple’s Most Anticipated Books for Summer in Mysteries & Thrillers*
SOME TRUTHS ARE BETTER KEPT SECRET. SOME SECRETS ARE BETTER OFF DEAD.
Along the banks of the Bogue Falaya River, sits the abandoned St. Francis Seminary. Beneath a canopy of oaks, blocked from prying eyes, the teens of St. Benedict High gather here on Fridays. The rest of the week belongs to school and family—but weekends belong to the river. And the river belongs to Beau Devereaux. The only child of a powerful family, Beau can do no wrong. Star quarterback. Handsome. Charming. The “prince” of St. Benedict is the ultimate catch. He is also a psychopath.
A dirty family secret buried for years, Beau’s evil grows unchecked. In the shadows of the haunted abbey, he commits unspeakable acts on his victims and ensures their silence with threats and intimidation. Senior year, Beau sets his sights on his girlfriend’s headstrong twin sister, Leslie, who hates him. Everything he wants but cannot have, she will be his ultimate prize. As the victim toll mounts, it becomes clear that someone must stop Beau Devereaux. And that someone will pay with their life.
River of Ashes is a Southern Gothic, Psychological Thriller inspired by true events in the vein of V.C. Andrews with elements of Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn and You by Caroline Kepnes. River of Ashes addresses social issues including sexual violence and bullying.
Praise for River of Ashes:
“River of Ashes offers an inside look into the mind of a psychopath—a cautionary tale that the scariest monsters are the ones you know but never suspect.”
Pearry Teo, PhD; Award-Winning Director of The Assent, Executive Producer of Cloud Atlas
“A psychological portrait akin to Lord of the Flies.”
Midwest Book Review
“If Gillian Flynn and Bret Easton Ellis had a book baby, it would be River of Ashes.”
~Booktrib
Book Details:
Genre: Southern Gothic / Psychological Thriller / Coming-of-Age Published by: Vesuvian Books Publication Date: August 2nd 2022 Number of Pages: 284 ISBN: 1645480984 (ISBN13: 9781645480983) Series: St. Benedict #1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | IndieBound
Read an excerpt:
Leslie turned off Main Street and headed along the single-lane road. The storefronts gave way to homes with colorful gardens and oaks draped with tendrils of Spanish moss. Then the houses grew sparse and disappeared as greenery hugged the side of the road. Leslie slowed to avoid a pothole and heard the rush of the Bogue Falaya River through the open windows.
The trees thinned, revealing the two stone spires of The Abbey. Apprehension snaked through her as she pictured Beau, her sister, and all the unsettling things she associated with the derelict church.
A wall of dense red buckeye bushes swaying in the breeze shrouded the road. Leslie drove through an opening someone carved out long ago. A cleared lot lay hidden beyond the dense hedge, surrounded by thick pines and oaks, with paths leading down a steep embankment to the river’s edge.
Leslie got out of the car, listening to the sweet refrain of birds in the trees. “No one’s here today.”
“It’s still too early. Everybody from school likes to come after dark.” Derek led her to a pine-straw-covered path and to the shore of the rushing river.
Something moved in the dense underbrush. Leslie walked ahead, trying to get a better look. “What’s that?”
She crossed several broken branches until she stumbled on something nestled in the foliage. The stench of rotting flesh hit her nose. She gagged and slowed to a stop.
“Wait, be careful.” Derek swept aside a few leafy twigs to get a better look.
Flies covered the bloated belly of a white-tailed deer. Deep grooves slashed into what remained of the deer’s neck. The poor animal’s hindquarters appeared torn away.
Leslie crept closer. “What could do such a thing?”
Derek took her hand and backed out of the brush. “I bet it was the wild dogs.”
Leslie let him lead her away from the stench. “What wild dogs?”
He stopped outside of the brush. “They’re around here. A couple of weeks ago, Mom said some hunters came in the diner and reported seeing them.”
“Where did they come from?” Leslie’s voice shook.
Derek guided her to a path curving down a long slope. The roar of the river grew louder.
“There are lots of stories. I heard they were left behind when the monks abandoned the place. Legend has it that when they appear, death is near.”
A shudder ran through her.
Derek tugged Leslie’s hand. “Come on.”
The path widened, and a beach came into view. The outcropping of white sand had a collection of green picnic tables, red barrel trash cans, and fire pits along the river’s edge. Around the beach, thick brush covered the shore with limbs from pine trees dipping into the water. The sun sparkled on the gentle waves.
Leslie followed him along the shoreline until they came to a rusted iron gate with a No Trespassing sign secured to it. The sign, decorated with crosses and swirls, marked the entrance to The Abbey grounds. Stepping through the open gate, she peered up at the imposing structure.
Two spires of white limestone, shaped like the tip of a sword, cut into the blue sky. A structure of red brick and limestone, the front windows and doors secured with loose scraps of plywood, sat in the middle of a field of high grass. The squat stone building of cloisters behind The Abbey remained intact. The Benedictine monks, who had run the seminary and were responsible for the preparation of future priests, demolished the dormitories, refectory, and library after they abandoned the site. The rest remained because, in the South, it was considered bad luck to tear down churches.
“Some place, huh?” Derek let go of her hand and ventured across the high grass.
A wave of panic shot through Leslie.
The grounds, unkempt after years of neglect, were a hodgepodge of weeds, overgrown trees, and vines.
Why would people come here at night?
“You ever wonder why those monks just up and left?” Leslie was uncomfortable with the eerie quiet. Even the birds had stopped singing. “Everyone says they got a better offer from the seminary in New Orleans, but it seems funny a bunch of people abandoned the place for no reason.”
Derek parted a thick pile of tall grass with his shoe. “My mom told me it was falling apart when she was a kid, and the Archdiocese didn’t have the money to fix it. So, they packed up the school and sent the monks and all the staff to New Orleans.”
“I read once that the structure dates back to the early 1800s, when the Devereaux family built it as a private church.” Leslie eyed the empty belfry atop one of the square-shaped towers. “You’d think they’d want to save it.”
Derek nudged her with his elbow. “Maybe the ghost drove them away.”
Beau’s tale had been in the back of her mind the whole time, but Derek’s comment spooked the crap out of her. “By ghost, do you mean the lady in white?”
“Yep.” He scanned the land around them. “They say she appears when the moon is full or during storms.”
The thought of being alone in such a disturbing place terrified her. “Have you ever seen the ghost?”
Derek searched the thick foliage ahead of them. “Nah. I’ve never seen anything.”
Granite steps appeared as they drew near the entrance.
Leslie kicked herself for letting him talk her into coming to this place. “What about the wild dogs? Have you seen them around The Abbey?”
“Not to worry, love, I’ll protect you from ghosts, wild dogs, and Beau Devereaux.” He climbed the steps, encouraging her to join him. “But I have to draw the line at your mother. There’s no way I’m taking her on in a fight.”
On the porch, beneath the cracked and chipped stone arch above the doors, she waited while Derek wrestled with the plywood covering the entrance. Despite the creep factor, the lush green trees surrounding them had a soothing effect. Leslie breathed in the fresh pine scent and mossy aroma of the tall grass. Then a fly zipped past her face.
Thud.
She turned and discovered Derek had pushed a large piece of plywood securing the door out of the way, leaving a nice-sized gap to crawl through.
“How did you do that?”
Derek held the plywood to the side for her. “The loose boards have been rigged to open easily.”
Leslie dipped her head and looked through the doorway. “You sure it’s safe?”
“I wouldn’t bring you here if it wasn’t, love.”
His smile won over her fears.
Once inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Pinpoints of light shone on a floor covered with clumps of debris. In the roof, thousands of holes, some big and some small, littered the space between the bare beams where parts of plaster had fallen away. Birds’ nests of light-colored hay and twigs nestled against blackish beams and shadowy eaves, creating a patchwork design on the ceiling. It reminded Leslie of the quilt her grandmother had made for her as a child.
Derek appeared, shining a beam of light on the floor.
She pointed at the flashlight. “Where did you get that?”
“Me and the guys have been here a few times. We’ve stashed stuff around the place. We even have sleeping bags and water bottles socked away.”
Here she was a nervous wreck while his friends had turned it into their personal campground. Leslie’s skin crawled at the idea of spending the night in such a place. “I don’t know why you guys come here.”
He took her hand, and the beam bounced on the dusty floor. “I don’t get why you’re so freaked out. It’s just an old building. There’s nothing sinister about it.”
Beau’s words about taking her to The Abbey sent a shiver down her spine. Any girl would be at his mercy in such a place. She questioned her sister’s choices, knowing she’d been there with Beau.
Derek swung the light across the floor, shining it on dozens of rotted pews, leaves, twigs, crumbled plaster pieces from the ceiling, and skeletons of dead birds. “Lots of animals use this place as shelter. I’ve seen possums, raccoons, deer, and once, I swear I saw a black leopard running out the back.”
Leslie became even more uneasy about being in the building. “You wouldn’t happen to have a shotgun in your stash.”
“The animals don’t bother me, just the people.”
Their footfalls echoed through the vast structure as they ventured farther. Leslie kept expecting someone or something to jump out from the shadows. Her only distraction was the intricate carvings atop the arches and the paintings on the walls. Men and angels exchanged timid glances as rays of light from parting clouds shined down.
Paintings of Noah and the flood, Adam and Eve, and other Genesis stories were barely visible on the white plaster covering the arches along the central aisle. In one spot, where the roof remained intact, she could make out the image of Moses holding the Ten Commandments. His eyes stood out the most. It was like they carried the burning wrath of God.
Shivering, Leslie looked ahead to a white archway marking the entrance to the altar. The gleam of the limestone appeared pristine. She got closer to the most sacred part of the old church, and her sense of dread rose. She spun around to face the scattered, rotting pews behind them.
“What is it?” Derek asked, taking her hand.
His voice rattled inside the hollows of the church, adding to her anxiety. They stood under the circular dome where the altar had once been, and then a low growl came from a shadowy corner.
The air left her lungs. Her senses heightened. Seconds ticked by while she listened for other sounds. “Tell me you heard that.”
Derek raised his finger to his lips and nodded to a door on his left.
***
Excerpt from River of Ashes by Alexandrea Weis & Lucas Astor. Copyright 2022 by Alexandrea Weis & Lucas Astor. Reproduced with permission from Vesuvian Books. All rights reserved.
Meet Our Authors:
Alexandrea Weis
Alexandrea Weis, RN-CS, PhD, is an IPPY Award-Winning author, advanced practice registered nurse, and wildlife rehabber who was born and raised in the French Quarter. She has taught at major universities and worked with victims of sexual assault, abuse, and mental illness in a clinical setting at many New Orleans area hospitals. She is a member of the International Thriller Writers Organization and Horror Writers Association. The Strand Magazine said, “Alexandrea Weis is one of the most talented authors around, and in a short time her novels are destined to stand along with authors such as Stephen King, Gillian Flynn, Joyce Carol Oates, and Jeffery Deaver.”
Author Lucas Astor is an award-winning author and poet with a penchant for telling stories that delve into the dark side of the human psyche. He likes to explore the evil that exists, not just in the world, but next door behind a smiling face. Astor currently lives outside of Nashville, TN.
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The Light After the Orange Beverley J. Hall (The Tundra Stone Series, #1) Publication date: July 18th 2022 Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Post-Apocalyptic
EVEN IN A DYING WORLD, IS SURVIVAL ENOUGH?
After the Orange and the catastrophic devastation of Earth, magic began to seep in—but will it help Alex Chegasa survive?
Hidden and protected by magic, she grew up embracing her gifts. After witnessing the only people she can call family being murdered, eighteen-year-old Alex must choose between her head and her heart in her search for a place to belong. But, her hunt for a home means having to hide her magic.
All the while, in the shadows, eight-hundred-year-old Fae Billey NicNevin, suffering from amnesia, is rediscovering her magic.
Are their fates intertwined?
What if the fantastical stories Alex’s mother told her as a child were true?
ALL MYTHS ARE BASED ON TRUTH
Sales Copy: Eighteen-year-old Alex Chegasa, one of the first generation to be raised on post-apocalyptic Earth, was taught to embrace her magical gifts.
After the Orange, as the planet burned, magic trickled in. The bombs that had wiped out most life ripped open the barrier between worlds. Can the next generation, connected to the magic, be the solution to mankind’s problems or are they destined to repeat the mistakes of their ancestors?
Did the Orange, the very thing that ravaged the planet, also provide the solution? Or is magic more than a coincidence?
While Alex searches for somewhere to belong, in Massachusetts, she questions if survival is enough when she comes to understand that magic, used by the wrong people, could be more dangerous than the power of the generations before her.
Meanwhile, in a parallel story, we meet eight-hundred-year-old Fae, Billey NicNevin. With a past she doesn’t remember, she struggles to fit into Nuadh Caled (New Scotland) as it rebuilds itself. When she meets a woman whose soul calls to her, will she find her missing piece or tumble into insanity?
Are their destinies connected?
WHAT IF THE FANTASTICAL STORIES FROM ALEX’S CHILDHOOD WERE TRUE?
Loneliness ate me up from the inside, nibbling away at me and leaving an aching emptiness. I didn.t know what I missed or who I missed but knew, deep in the part of my soul that holds my intuition, there was a person-size hole nobody could fix, except for the one.
The person we all hunt for but so rarely find.
The person we were made to fit with.
The one imperfect, perfect, mismatch our soul longs for. *
The trees gathered around me and protected me from the breeze that grew and took on a new life. I rested against the rough bark of the largest tree, my rear now sitting into the roots that formed a seat in the ground. The tree, I almost believed, was shaped for me. Its branches wrapped around my tiny form as I snuggled among the roots. The wind grazed my cheek and I pulled my scarf around my face, desperate to stay here for every second possible.
The sound of the wind howling through the branches vibrated the leaves and created a voice I longed to understand. I closed my eyes, listening, imagining I could hear the voices of the trees. I felt my soul combine with the tree, and contentment that existed nowhere else in my life melted my anguish and pain.
My eyes shot open and I stared at where Geilis had been moments earlier. Empty space filled my view.
I was, again, alone.
Author Bio:
Beverley J. Hall was born in Kent, England, and raised in Scotland. Most of her childhood was spent with her nose in a book, and her love of stories was born.
While studying Art and Design, she discovered her love of storytelling, whether with paint, sculpture, fabric, or words.
After completing an MA in Creative Writing, she is now living her best life, writing stories at the seaside with her son, her granddaughter, and her cat Bertie.
Head over to TikTok, Instagram, or Twitter to join her overthinking and daydreaming (she’s still hoping for a pet dragon).
