Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 341

Release Day Blitz Divine Hotel by Nicole Loughan

Keeping it real
Diana Gabaldon is doing it, Dan Brown is doing it, now I’m doing it too.
I finally dipped my toes into writing historical fiction and the water is fine. Deriving inspiration from our collective history is exciting. I think it helps people automatically connect to the material, regardless of content, but it doesn’t hurt for the content to be good as well. When authors write about the familiar, even with books like Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter, it creates a picture in our mind whether we want it to or not. We know Abraham Lincoln and with a catchy title like that it gives us just enough information to want to know more.
But writing about real history is tricky. For me, I was writing about a history which was not my own, and which was very familiar and dear to the people who lived it. Also, since I did not reach very far back in time many of the people who lived it are still around. I relied on research and old photos to form a picture of what it might have been like to live in Philadelphia in the 1960s and I tried to tread carefully on dearly held memories. One example, in my book I write about an old department store. When I told people I had written about this store, there were definite opinions on what the characters did there and what the store looked like, I had gotten some of the details wrong and made changes to correct it.In my previous books, The Saints Mystery Series, I wrote complete fiction based in the Bayous of Louisiana. All of the events were completely fabricated, and it was completely clear that the situations were made up. I did still have to be careful about the culture. The books focused on two Cajun families and I wanted to be careful about showing Cajun culture without trampling on people’s heritage.
Overall, I found writing about history and historical fiction exciting and challenging. I spent several weeks researching Philadelphia in the 1960s, no easy feat as much of the historical nuance is not recorded. You need to hear it from the people who were there. For example, that store I talked about in Philadelphia is known by people from Philadelphia as Wannamaker, but if you search the internet it will tell you that store was called Strawbridges. People still call the building Wannamaker’s today even though it’s a Macy’s. 
That’s the sort of detail you just can’t find in an internet search.
I have so much more respect for writers who make the choice to explore history with fiction, it’s very hard to navigate the waters of the real world with a fictional captain.
You can find Nicole’s latest book Divine Hotel for sale on Amazon for an introductory $2.99  special. 
Her Saint’s Mystery Series are also available on Amazon starting with To Murder a Saint.






Divine HotelDivine SeriesBook OneNicole Loughan
Genre: Time Travel/ Mystery
Publisher: Can’t Put it Down Books
Date of Publication: 03/28/2016
ISBN: 978-0-9972024-1-0ASIN: B019WVO0OE
Number of pages: 212Word Count: 76,000
Cover Artist: Genevieve LaVO
Book Description:
Time is running out for Philadelphia’s Divine Hotel…One woman is tasked with saving two children who lived at the once majestic hotel but she soon learns that there is more to their history and the hotel than she ever thought possible. To save them she’s going to have to re-set the clock for everybody at the hotel and the only way to do that is to go all the way back to 1964. Righting the wrongs of the past will be no easy feat, because there are those willing to fight to keep their sins buried in history.
Amazon
Pre-order Paperback
Excerpt:
A long time ago, before most people can remember, a palace stood over Philadelphia. It was a place of refuge for the weak and weary of the city, a shining monument of marble, oak and brass that towered over the metropolis. Good and evil were kept in balance there, until one day the scales tipped and evil won out. As the years passed, the marble and brass were stolen, and the oak was stripped of its shine. As the hotel fell into ruin, its inhabitants followed. All was not lost, though, for there was one chance to save the hotel—and its inhabitants—from this fate. Hidden not far away was an otherworldly gift meant to right the wrongs of the past, if only the right person could find it.

2002
“You can’t catch me,” the boy shouted as he flung open the doors to the dilapidated dining hall. The room was lit by slivers of sun that peeked through the cracks in the high ceiling, and sporadic beams of light that shone through hastily fastened boards covering the room’s many broken windows.All that was left of the once great hall were water-stained plaster ornaments positioned high up on the ceiling, far out of reach. Everything of value was gone. The light fixtures, hardwood floors, door knobs, and every last bit of shined marble and brass had been stripped away. The floors were an uneven terrain of warped wood and broken boards. The edges of the room were a tapestry of trash, but the center of the great space, which had once housed long oak dining tables, was completely bare.The girl in pursuit walked gingerly over the broken boards. She kept her eyes on the ground and squinted to keep the dust floating through the air out of her eyes. “Slow down, Darrius!” she shouted.She paused in front of a hole in the floor, which blocked her passage into the great room. She stared down and saw only darkness, which could mean the hole opened only down to the next floor, or could possibly reach as far down as all ten floors.“Come on, Carol,” he shouted. “You aren’t gonna fall going over that tiny hole.”She watched him move with feline grace over the broken boards and gathered her courage. She involuntarily held her breath, took two steps back, and focused her eyes on a point just past the opening.She ran as fast as her legs would carry her toward the gap. She pushed off and wobbled as a loose board slid away from her. She fell awkwardly forward and threw her arms out to catch herself. She scratched her palms reaching out for the ledge and only managed a precarious hold. If she’d weighed just a bit more she might have fallen in.Darrius raced to her. The strain of holding on was too much for her, one by one her fingers were slipping, the pinkies first, then the ring fingers, and then all at once the rest gave way and she fell. Darrius grasped her wrist just before she slipped out of sight. He grunted as he pulled her up and out of the hole. As soon as he had her over the edge he fell backwards and she landed beside him with a thud.Carol lay back and caught her breath as Darrius joked, “I could’ve made that jump with you on my back, you chicken.”She stared up at the ceiling and pointed at a plaster fruit basket. “Darrius, look, the ceiling. It’s changed again.”He looked up and said, “I don’t see anything different. You always think that ceiling looks different. Who do you think would get all the way up there and fix the ceiling?”“It does change,” she exclaimed. “It always looks like it’s about to fall apart, then it’s patched back up. Yesterday that fruit basket was just a hole in the ceiling.” He laughed so hard the ground shook beneath him. When he stopped he realized the floor was shaking without any work from him, and he bolted upright.“What is that?” Carol demanded, as she jumped up and looked down at the floor. “It’s somebody pounding,” Darrius yelled as he, too, jumped up to his feet. More knocks rang out around the hall, shaking up dust, which floated freely through the room. Suddenly a shout could be heard below their feet. “Keep it down,” followed by a more distant yell, “Shut up.”When the pounding ceased they could hear the wail of sirens outside. Darrius jumped up and ran to peek through the boards.“What?” Carol asked.“It’s the cops.” “What do we do?”
“We run.”
About the Author:
You may know Nicole as the syndicated humor columnist, “The Starter Mom,” or from her Best-Selling Saints Mystery Novels. Because of the series’ popularity, Amazon chose it for their Stipend Program to be turned into an audiobook at their expense.
An award-winning journalist and author, she was recognized by Writer's Digest as a top fiction writer in 2015 and won honorable mention in genre fiction from the Writer's Digest annual self-publishing competition for her Saints Mystery Series.
Nicole writes for two daily newspapers in the greater Philadelphia area and as a columnist for Happenings Media. Prior to working as a writer, Nicole was an Agency Social Worker for the Philadelphia Department of Human Services, where she first learned about the subject of her latest novel, Divine Hotel.
Nicole grew up on a rural farm in Southern Michigan, but she was always a city girl at heart. She still has a penchant for straight-from-the-dairy cheese, but otherwise prefers to spend her days in New York and Philadelphia and her adopted hometown in Bucks County. The mother of two, she is a soprano in The Bucks County Woman’s Chorus and an amateur pianist.
www.nicoleloughan.com
https://www.facebook.com/nicoleloughanauthor/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7084650.Nicole_Loughan
a Rafflecopter giveaway

A Remedy to Media Desensitization with Christian A Brown

A Remedy to Media Desensitization
After the Game of Thrones episode with Sansa’s ‘deflowering’, I decided that I needed to take a break from “gritty”, “edgy” programming. A cultural shift is happening and there seems to be nothing on the table that we cannot discuss or see anymore. I’m a strong supporter of the freedom of information, artistic-expression, and choice. That said, I worry—and personally suffer at times—from the overwhelming sensationalism that surrounds certain media. I understand why it is important to accurately portray violence and evil—I have often written divisive, dark material myself. Still, I feel that an over-immersion in this type of content separates us from the humanity that we need to objectively view and tackle rigid gender roles and issues of sexuality and violence. Live too long in the darkness and darkness is all you know. Sometimes it’s easier to just turn off my brain and watch something mindless, instead of having to worry about furthering—or dismantling—negative social constructs with the material I’m watching. I look to laugh. I look for something that doesn’t tax mind or morality.

A hearty serving of brain-pap was what I intended to feed myself when my partner and I flicked on Netflix the other night. While scrolling through our options, I saw a still of Jane Fonda grimacing at Lily Tomlin and was immediately intrigued. “Grace and Frankie,” their new show is called. I didn’t read the synopsis—I rarely do, even with books. I knew that there would be tomfoolery and hilarity with this duo. Grace and Frankie has a kind of magic to its casting and delivery that’s as rare and unexpected as the scent of vanilla while standing knee deep in a fly-buzzing quagmire of manure—my analogy on the current state of crass programming that gluts our media. I rarely, if ever, watch situation comedies. Only that’s not what Grace and Frankie is, entirely, and you realize that right from the opening sequence where all four of the major characters are introduced: Grace (Fonda), Frankie (Tomlin), Sol (Waterston), and Robert (Martin Sheen). The four are at a restaurant. First, only Grace and Frankie are present and we can sense their forced pleasantness around the other. They’re really only acquaintances on account of their husbands who work together. Said husbands, Robert and Sol, arrive for dinner; they’re nervous and fidgety. The men almost immediately come out to their wives, professing their love for one another. They have been involved in an affair for decades.

At this point, there are a number of ways in which a comedy tackling social issues of this depth—homosexuality, infidelity, trust—could go horribly off the rails. However, through the power of the performances and a passable script (which gets better as the show matures), the actors guide us through a great betrayal and shattering of relationships, and build something quite remarkable from the pieces. Reviews have been mixed on Grace and Frankie. I’ve read a few blurbs on the show’s ham-fisted characterizations but I’ve never found that to be the case. In the many episodes of Grace and Frankie that I’ve enjoyed, I’ve seen the show deal with addiction, ageism, unfulfilling sexual patterns, death, and of course all of the foibles and disasters that accompany the whole “our husbands are gay” quandary. I like how the writers and actors make less of a fuss about being gay and more of a fuss about the betrayal. That’s why people are usually angry when someone comes out—they think they should have known, they blame or project themselves into the situation. I enjoy how the show slowly paces the long process of healing between former partners, and interweaves that with the budding, beautiful friendship of the titular characters.

A show can’t do or be everything, and you can only impart so much wisdom through twenty minutes of comedic drama. I can forgive the show’s failing of not being life-altering satire. What Grace and Frankie does right, however, is to show human relationships at their most flawed and vulnerable, in a digestible way. You see, it doesn’t matter what the message is if people are too offended to heed it. Grace and Frankie shows people who have hope. It shows people who are old and still beautiful (inside and out). It has a number of lessons for us to learn if we are willing. Also, you get to see Fonda tripping balls on painkillers and peyote juice in the very first episode. That alone is worth the price of admission.

Most of all, I watch Grace and Frankie because I worry for a diet of the mind consisting solely of grim, dark gruel. Too much of one thing is never good. We need levity. We need thoughtful lightness in our emotional diet. A world fed only on Cersei’s machinations and Sansa’s cries makes for a starved and violent populace.


Feast of DreamsFour Feasts Till DarknessBook TwoChristian A. Brown
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Book Description:
As King Brutus licks his wounds and gathers new strength, two rival queens vow to destroy each other’s nations.
Lila of Eod, sliding into madness, risks everything in the search for a powerful relic, while Queen Gloriatrix threatens Eod with military might—including three monstrous technomagikal warships.
Far from this clash of queens, Morigan and the Wolf scour Alabion, hunting for the mad king’s hidden weakness. Their quest brings them face to face with their own pasts, their dark futures…and the Sisters Three themselves.
Unbeknownst to all, a third thread in Geadhain’s tapestry begins to move in the wastes of Mor’Khul. There, a father and son scavenge to survive as they travel south toward a new chapter in Geadhain history.

Available at Amazon Kindle and Paperback

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/rURqUni_lco

Excerpt 2“Fine playing,” said Maggie.            The Silk Purse’s proprietor sat down at the table where the night’s entertainment fiddled with his lute’s strings. The bard glanced up and smiled at her with his eyes, although he kept on tinkering and tuning to the pitch of his voice. Maggie watched him for a spell. The man was mystifying. He was as distant as a dream one forgot and so far into himself, his music, or some secret obsession that she might as well have been elsewhere. He was certainly handsome, though, and in their short conversations today, he’d proven a capable and witty talker. She wanted a bit more of his talk.            “Will you be staying on another night?” she asked. “Before heading back to…”She realized that in all their discussions, the man had never told her where he had come from—or where he was headed. Or much about himself at all. Even stranger, she couldn’t pin down how she’d made his acquaintance. Had he come knocking at the tavern door yesterday? Had he smiled a dashing hello with a lute over his back and a promise to play for coin? That seemed right.            “Would you like me to stay?” he asked suddenly.            He grinned from ear to ear and displayed his offer of companionship as confidently as the fox he reminded her of strutting around the henhouse and picking its prey. She could see him evaluating her body—her full breasts, strong hips, thick, wind-tossed hair, and comely face. She was as chipped and beautiful as a sculptor’s favorite piece. She wore her hardship plainly, but it had not dulled her beauty, and he seemed to appreciate her weathered self. As for the fox’s proposal, Maggie was a sensible self-made woman without need for a man. Once or maybe twice a year, she took one to her bed, but she never asked him to stay or even to break a morning fast with her. Whatever her hesitations, when the fox smiled—fiery and daring—she lit up and felt as warm as a woman sinking into a bath. A decision was made. A little outside of herself, she slid his hand over hers. She reinforced her agreement by standing up from the table and leading him past her tired staff as they cleaned up the night’s mess and rolled the drunks outside. The trip up the stairs and into her chambers was fuzzy. Suddenly, they were alone and kissing in the dark. He whispered of her beauty. “Like a cameo of Diasora,” he declared.She wondered who Diasora was while he plucked his fingers upon and within her as though she were his lute. They tumbled into chairs, onto the carpet, and onto the bed. She wasn’t sure where they were half the time. She swallowed his hardness just as he ate and kissed the mouth between her thighs. Together they rolled and tumbled about in the dark and moaned in ecstasy. She rode him against the wall and swallowed his gasps as he spilled himself inside her. It was careless, and she should have known better. Apologetically and with a perverted grin, he cleaned out with his tongue what he had done, and passion carried her mind away again. Through the haze of their sex, she would remember his handsome smell—vanilla, subtle incense, and sweeter herbs such as marjoram. Sometimes he sang to her ears while playing the instrument of her body. She would most remember this—his passion and musicality.When they finished, dawn had come. It cast its hard rays though the curtains and into their humid nest of sin. Maggie should have felt embarrassed or shamed even, but instead she snuggled into her lover’s taut flesh while he continued caressing her breasts. Milk drops, the bard called them, for their pendulous whiteness and succulence. She chuckled as he said it. She would have slapped any other man who made nicknames for portions of her anatomy.“Where will you go?” she asked.She knew this was a fleeting encounter. Men as artistic at loving as he were called to greater passions than women.Alastair kissed her breast. “Well, I shall stay in Taroch’s Arm a while longer. I have another task to which I must attend. One more meeting after this.” He sighed and looked off with his multicolored stare to count the ceiling’s lines.Maggie snuggled into him further until she realized what he’d admitted. “Wait! Meeting? Is that what this is? What is your aim?”She leaped from the bed. Alastair went after her and backed her into a corner. He appeared stricken and white from regret. Rather brazenly, he kissed her so deeply she lost her breath. Although Maggie allowed it, she slapped him as soon as their lips parted. He grinned and rubbed his cheek. “What fire you have!” he said, adding sadly, “How much you remind me of a woman I once knew. Do understand. This is not how I had planned our parley. I am not ungrateful, though, for this turn of events. I would stay for a thousand kisses more if I could. However, my master is most demanding of my time.”“Master?” she exclaimed.“You are fortunate, Maggie. Most serve masters and destinies from which we cannot break. You have made so much of yourself without the hands of others. Despairingly, I must ask this of you. It’s a task you cannot refuse.”I can, and I shall, she thought. No man, not even a roguish wanderer, could boss her around. Then the fox whispered a secret and those familiar names to her: Thackery, Caenith, Rowena, and Galivad. By the time he was done, she had no resolve to argue. She had only an unwanted urgency to pack, make quick arrangements for the Silk Purse’s managerial duties, and leave. She had no choice—not with so many lives at stake. While she busied herself about her apartment, the bard came to kiss her a final time, and they fell onto the bed. For all their grinding, they did not make love. Soon he stopped, studied her, and soaked in her beauty. Maggie closed her eyes. She would not watch him leave. When she was certain he had gone, she pulled her sturdiest boots from under her bed and put them on.

Feast of FatesFour Feasts Till DarknessBook OneChristian A. Brown
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Date of Publication: September 9, 2014
ISBN: 978-1495907586Number of pages: 540
Word Count: 212K
Book Description:
"Love is what binds us in brotherhood, blinds us from hate, and makes us soar with desire.”
Morigan lives a quiet life as the handmaiden to a fatherly old sorcerer named Thackery. But when she crosses paths with Caenith, a not wholly mortal man, her world changes forever. Their meeting sparks long buried magical powers deep within Morigan. As she attempts to understand her newfound abilities, unbidden visions begin to plague her--visions that show a devastating madness descending on one of the Immortal Kings who rules the land.
With Morigan growing more powerful each day, the leaders of the realm soon realize that this young woman could hold the key to their destruction. Suddenly, Morigan finds herself beset by enemies, and she must master her mysterious gifts if she is to survive.

Available at Amazon and CreatespaceFeast of Fates, Excerpt #2 (533 Words)
Morigan took the bracelet.            “I accept your offering.” The Wolf’s face lit and she thought that he would leap at her. “Yet first, I have a request.”            “Anything, my Fawn.”            “I would like to see…what you are. The second body that shares your soul. Show me your fangs and claws,” she commanded.            Perhaps it was the steadiness of her voice, how she ordered him to bare himself as if he belonged to her, that made the Wolf’s heart roar to comply. He did not shed his skin but for the whitest moons of the year, and even then, so far from the city and never in front of another. In a sense, he was as much a virgin as she. With an unaccustomed shyness, he found himself undressing before the Fawn, confused for a speck as to who was the hunter. The flare of her nostrils, the intensity of her stare that ate at him for once.            I have chosen well for a mate. She is as much a Wolf as I, he thought, kicking off his boots and then shimmying his pants down to join the rest of his clothing. No bashful maiden was Morigan, and she did not look away from his nakedness, but appreciated what she saw: every rough, hairy, huge bit of him.            He howled and fell to all fours. Bones shifted and snapped, rearranging under his skin like skeletal gears. From his head, chest and loins, the soft black hair thickened and spread over his twisting flesh. His heaving became guttural and sloppy, and when he tossed his head up in a throe of agony or pleasure, his beard had coated his face, and she noticed nothing but white daggers of teeth. Wondrously Morigan witnessed the transformation, watched him swell with twice the muscle he had possessed as a man, saw his hands and feet shag over with fur and split the soil with black claws. Another howl and a final gristle-crunching shudder (his hindquarters snapping into place, she thought) signified the end of the change.            Her dreams did not do Caenith justice. Here was a beast twice the size of a mare with jaws that could swallow her to the waist. Here was a monster that had stalked and ruled the Untamed. A lord of fang and claw. The birds and weaker animals vanished, knowing a deadly might was near. Around her, the Wolf paced; making the ground tremble with power; ravishing her with his cold gray gaze; huffing and blasting her with his forceful breaths. While the scent of his musk was choking, it was undeniably Caenith’s, if rawer and unwashed.            Morigan was not afraid, and was flushed with heat and shaking as she slipped the bracelet on and knelt. She did not flinch as the Wolf lay behind and about her like a great snuffling rug and placed his boulder of a head in her lap. No, she stroked his long ears and his wrinkled snout. A maiden and her Wolf. Soon the birds returned, sensing this peace and chirping in praise of it. And neither Morigan nor the Wolf could recall a time—if ever there was one—where they had felt so complete.

About the Author:
Bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Feast of Fates, Christian A. Brown received a Kirkus star in 2014 for the first novel in his genre-changing Four Feasts Till Darkness series. He has appeared on Newstalk 1010, AM640, Daytime Rogers, and Get Bold Today with LeGrande Green. He actively writes a blog about his mother’s journey with cancer and on gender issues in the media. A lover of the weird and wonderful, Brown considers himself an eccentric with a talent for cat-whispering.

http://christianadrianbrown.com
https://twitter.com/AuthorChrisAB
https://www.facebook.com/ChristianAdrianBrown
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8422242.Christian_A_Brown
https://plus.google.com/u/0/105782095673393074893/about

Bewitching Book Tours Spring Sale

Spring into book promotion with Bewitching Book Tours
Receive 10% off any book tour package booked before March 31
You must use code SPRINGFLING to receive the discount
Sign up here: http://goo.gl/dNgqXv 

Bewitching Book Tours Spring Sale

Spring into book promotion with Bewitching Book Tours
Receive 10% off any book tour package booked before March 31
You must use code SPRINGFLING to receive the discount
Sign up here: http://goo.gl/dNgqXv 

Giveaway I Wish I'd Never Met You by Tanith Davenport

I Wish I'd Never Met YouTanith Davenport
Genre: Erotic romance
Publisher: Pride PublishingDate of Publication: 23 February 2016
ISBN: 978-1-78651-377-9
Number of pages: 37Word Count: 10184
Cover Artist: Posh Gosh
Book Description:
Flick Lindenwood, fresh from college, has returned home to the suburban haven of Green Valley, back to society…and the source of her heartbreak. Four years ago Elodie Hamilton savagely broke her heart, and Flick has no intention of letting her pretty ex get back under her skin. As far as she’s concerned, she and Elodie never happened.
But Elodie has other ideas.
Afraid to come out, Elodie chose to destroy her relationship with Flick rather than let her family know who she was. But now she wants to right the wrong she did—if she can only find the nerve, and if she can convince Flick to see past the pain she caused.
Pride Publishing
About the Author:
Tanith Davenport began writing erotica at the age of 27 by way of the Romantic Novelists' Association New Writers' Scheme. Her debut novel "The Hand He Dealt" was released by Total-e-Bound in June 2011 and was shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for 2012.
Tanith has had short stories published by Naughty Nights Press and House of Erotica. She loves to travel and dreams of one day taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic 1950s pink Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith's idea of heaven is an Indian head massage with a Mojito at her side.
www.facebook.com/TanithDavenport
www.tanithdavenport.com
www.twitter.com/TanithDavenporta Rafflecopter giveaway

Bewitching Book Tours is Seeking New Tour Hosts

Are you a book lover?

Do you have a book blog, podcast, radio show, chat room, magazine or other web based outlet that promotes books and authors?

Bewitching Book Tours is looking for blogs and other creative media outlets willing to feature our authors and books.

What’s in it for you? 

Well if you’re a book lover we have plenty of free books to offer in exchange for reviews- mainly ARCs which means you have access to new releases before the general public. You’ll also be the first to hear about new authors, new books and who will be touring with Bewitching. 

And anyone that works with Bewitching also gets a lot of ongoing promotion- in addition to listing you as a tour host on our sites, we advertise your site as part of our network and when you host a tour you will be promoted daily throughout all of our social media networks- so your site will receive a lot of attention.

You will also have access to freebies, giveaways, tour host incentives and promotions only tour hosts get access to.

Bewitching Book Tours specializes in paranormal romance and urban fantasy tours but we tour almost all romance genres from contemporary to suspense, we also tour mysteries, horror, new adult, and erotica. We especially need new tour hosts for sci-fi, erotica and LGBT novels. 

And yes we tour YA and some middle grade books- mainly those in the paranormal and fantasy genres.

It is always your choice which tours to participate in. You can do one, you can do them all.

Sign up here to become part of the Bewitching Book Tours Team: 

https://www.facebook.com/BewitchingBooktours/app_100265896690345

Interview- Silk by L.M. Pruitt

What inspired your story?
--For some reason, the first line—“They called it the murder tree.”—kept running through my mind. I asked myself what kind of story would inspire people to give something such a nickname and from that what event could be so horrible to cement that name in history. The result was Silk.
Is the setting to your story important?
--I think so, yes. I’ve always been intrigued with the idea of writing a Southern Gothic novel. I’m not sure if Silk really qualifies but I think it’s very close. There’s a sort of wonderful eccentricity to small Southern towns, I believe, and when you add tragedy, it only exacerbates it.
Did you always want to be a writer? If not what did you want to be?
--Oh, I wanted to be a number of things—thankfully, none of them came to fruition. The older I get, the more I realize I don’t really have the type of personality for the structured environment of a law office or a classroom. I also don’t think either environment would appreciate my… colorful vocabulary.
When did you first consider yourself a “writer”?
--Probably when I finished my first novel. It was… horrible is putting it mildly. But I finished it, which was the first time I’d ever finished an entire work, so it was a major milestone. After that, I continued writing and studying my craft until I felt comfortable enough to publish.
What was the craziest thing you’ve ever done when it came to a storyline in your book?
--Oh, wow. I think the absolute craziest thing I’ve done was in my first series, the Jude Magdalyn series. Spoiler alert: one pregnancy, two babies, two fathers. I’ll leave it at that.






SilkL.M. Pruitt
Release Date: April 19, 2016
Genre: Horror
Book Description:
They called it the murder tree.
In 1995, twenty kids went in to the woods. Only three came back.
There are monsters in the woods.
Twenty years later, what happened is still a mystery.
The monsters are back.
Now, the town of Silk faces its greatest threat in over two hundred years. No one is safe.
Not even the monsters.


Available for Pre-Order at Amazon

Excerpt
November 1995
They called it the murder tree.The kids did, anyway. To the adults, those people who no longer believed in ghost stories and things that went bump in the night, it was known as the old Litz tree. The last living monument to the family who founded the town before Georgia was even a state, giving their money and lives in the process.The adults liked to gloss over that particular part of the story when discussing the history of Mulberry.The kids preferred to linger on it.Most of them knew the story of the night the Litz family lost their lives before they were even able to read the decades old textbooks grudgingly provided by the Department of Education. By the time they graduated to junior high, all the kids—the cool ones, at least, the ones you wanted at your party or it wasn’t really a party—had camped out next to the murder tree. More than one high school girl had allowed her boyfriend to “comfort” her in the shadow of the ancient mulberry after listening to the story of the Litz family yet again.You weren’t a part of Mulberry until you had spent your time at the murder tree.It was the only reason Elias Crenshaw could think of for why he was freezing his balls off on what was shaping up to be the coldest night of the year.That and the fact Mandy Jones had promised him she’d be there. The way she’d told him, with just the tiniest smile of her bubblegum pink lips and a flutter of lashes, was enough to keep him warm.But only for another hour. After that, he was going home. The guys could rag him all they wanted on Monday morning. They’d be the one with bug bites and frozen fingers and all the other stupid things that happened when you spent the night in the frickin’ woods. He’d be warm and rested and all studied up for the big biology exam in sixth period.Man, if he didn’t get at least a C his parents were going to flip. They’d already been on the fence about letting him camp out the Friday before a test. If he failed, they wouldn’t let him out of the house again until the end of the school year. He’d be the only kid not allowed to go the eighth grade prom.Mandy Jones would never go out with him if he was the loser kid who didn’t go to the prom.“Your face is going to freeze like that.”Elias snorted. “No, it won’t.”“Yeah, it will.” Shephard Jackson widened her already big brown eyes—bug eyes, Mandy called them—and nodded solemnly. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”“Probably the wrong thing to say when we’re next to the murder tree.” Elias tilted toward her, leaning in with his whole body before hunching his shoulders and shivering. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t allowed in the woods after dark.”“I’m not.” She huffed out a breath, the puff of frosty air doing nothing to dislodge the white blonde hair seemingly glued to her forehead. She’d bleached it the week before on a dare, just like she’d pierced her nose last month and broken in to the library the month before that. “But that’s Kelly’s stupid rule. She keeps trying to act like she’s my mom or something.”“Well, she married your dad.” Elias winced when she reached over and smacked him on the back of his head. “Jesus, Shep.”“You’re not supposed to take her side. You’re supposed to take mine.” She sniffled and swiped her hand under her nose. “That’s what best friends do.”“Fine, whatever.” When Shep sighed, Elias rolled his eyes. “It’s a stupid rule and she’s a bitch and she should stop trying to act like she’s your mom.”“Thank you.” The pseudo sniffling immediately stopped and she leaned in to him, her slight frame weighing next to nothing. After a moment, she said, “What are you doing here?”“Rite of passage.” He nodded at the small group clustered around the carefully constructed fire. Albert had insisted they follow all the safety rules for lighting a fire in the woods, reminding everyone of Smokey the Bear’s immortal saying. “Supposed to be more people coming. Real party.”“Oh, please.” She scoffed, the harsh exhalation shaking her entire body. “You’re here because Mandy Jones said she was going to be here. Her and her little group. They’re so… ugh.” She shook her head before turning to scowl at him. “You couldn’t fall in love with some girl who can actually have a conversation for longer than five minutes without mentioning cheerleading or makeup?”“First, I’m not in love with her.” Elias returned her scowl, narrowing his eyes to slits. “We barely know each other.” Truth, even though he’d spent countless hours imagining what it would be like to kiss her. “Second, just because she’s not fighting the power or whatever you do when you’re not pissing off your stepmom doesn’t make her stupid. She’s really smart.”“Eli, she said it was ridiculous to have the term ‘african-american’ because if you were born in America you obviously couldn’t be from Africa.”“Well.” He paused, racking his brain for an explanation even as he winced. “You know, there are a lot of adults who feel the same way. Like we should all just embrace our current culture and let of our heritage.”“Right.” Shep snorted and rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She jerked her chin at the fire. “Let’s go. Story time.”“Oh, come on.” He groaned, digging in his heels half-heartedly when she tried to drag him toward the group. They both knew it would be impossible for her to move him unless he helped. She was a hundred pounds soaking wet, barely topping five feet while he’d gained twenty pounds since school started. The only reason he wasn’t as fat as a turkey was the corresponding growth spurt, the new six inches putting him dangerously close to six feet. “Not again. We’ve heard this thing a million times.”“So this will be a million and one. Come on.” She yanked his arm harder, grumbling something under her breath about ogres. “It’s tradition to tell the story at every campout. Besides….” She trailed off, smiling up at him and batting her lashes. “I’m pretty sure Mandy finally arrived.”“Well, in that case.” He laughed when she gasped, using her moment of feigned shock to scoop her up and toss her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. “You know what’s really great about having you as a best friend? You’re easy to pick up when we’re fighting.”“You’re such a troglodyte.” Shep pounded on his back with her fists, biting back a scream when he took a step forward. “If anybody sees me, I swear—on my mom’s grave—I will make your life miserable for the rest of the year.”He paused, not at the threat, but the oath. After a minute, he dropped her back to her feet, brushing a speck of something off the shoulder of her jacket. They stared at each other, the awkwardness of the silence nearly tangible. Finally, he said, “Sorry, Shep.”“Whatever.” Spinning on her heels, she stomped toward the far side of the group, the laces of her combat boots slithering over the dead leaves like a snake. She slid between Albert and Jacob, sneering at something one of them said. Elias watched for another minute before shoving his hands in his pockets and trudging over to join the growing group.“Hey, Elias.” Mandy half walked, half skipped up to him as he neared the fire, linking her arm with his. “I thought you were going to spend all night talking to that weirdo.”“She’s not a weirdo.” The defense was as automatic as breathing. “Her mom died, remember? Like, right in front of her. She’s just, you know, grieving.”“Right.” Mandy sighed, the sort of huge, exaggerated sigh Elias knew meant annoyance at his supposed ignorance. His older sister made the same noise every time he asked her a question. “Whatever. I didn’t come out to these stupid woods to talk about her.” She smiled at him, the fire casting shadows over her normally light and bright face. “I came to hang out with you.”“Dude, we’re waiting.” Isiah Graves, Elias’s second best friend—but number one guy best friend, as Isiah was quick to point out—raised his voice to an almost shout. Since he’d been the one to propose the campout, he’d insisted he get to tell the story of the murder tree. Elias didn’t bother reminding him it was a hollow honor. “Story and then party. Rules are rules, man.”“Nobody cares except for you.” Jacob Wesson had the honor of being the oldest person in the group by a month and the first to have a voice which didn’t crack at random moments. “Just get this boring ass shit over with before I die of fucking boredom.”“Okay, okay.” Isiah hunched his shoulders and shuffled his feet, shooting a glare around the group at large before straightening to his full height. “The year was 1748. The town of Mulberry was struggling, just as it had been since the Litz family arrived from Germany with a dream of producing silk and other luxury goods.”“He sounds like a really dorky version of Mr. Young.” Mandy’s breathy whisper smelled like cinnamon and Elias closed his eyes for a split second, inhaling deeply. When he opened them again, she was watching him with a knowing look.“Everybody else in the town wanted to use the land for rice, something they could use and sell. But the Litz’s refused to give up their dream.” Isiah paused, drawing out the attempt at suspense. “Finally, the people of Mulberry decided enough was enough.”Even though everybody knew how the story went, how it ended, every last one of them inched closer. The next part of the tale was always told in a voice barely above a whisper, as if the long dead participants would hear and interrupt to correct the teller on some minute point. Tonight was no exception.“The entire town, everybody except the children, marched out to the Litz homestead. Josiah Litz tried to talk them down, make them see reason, but he failed.” Isiah stepped back and pointed up at a thick limb jutting out from the trunk in a crooked line. “They strung him up here but the fall didn’t break his neck. So he watched while the town slaughtered his entire family.”He paused again, the group holding its collective breath. The leaves, long dead but stubbornly clinging to their branches, shivered as a faint wind blew through the forest. Mandy moved closer to Elias and he put his arm around her, ignoring Shep’s eye roll.Isiah waited a beat longer. “Or rather—almost his entire family.“They forgot the oldest son was returning from New York. Franz Litz had been gone so long, it was possible the town had forgotten he even existed.” Isiah rapped his knuckles on the tree trunk, nodding solemnly. “But Josiah hadn’t. And while he slowly suffocated to death under the weight of his own body, he swore his family would have their revenge. And they did.“While the town burned the house and the trees and buried the bodies of the Litz family, Franz, who’d witnessed everything from the safety of the woods, rode in to Mulberry.” Isiah stepped back in to the circle, his low voice forcing everybody to move closer in order to hear. “And hung every last child.”The wind gusted through the woods again, stronger this time, the trees rattling their limbs in protest. Somewhere in the distance, some animal let out a single short cry, quickly cut off by the crunching of something larger and more dangerous. Elias glanced around the circle, surprised at the number of pale faces and large eyes, even as he reminded himself it was only a story.“The townspeople caught him right after he hung his last victim, a baby barely a month old. They hauled him, kicking and screaming, back to the murder tree.” As one, they turned to look at the ancient mulberry. “Even as they put the rope around his neck, he fought. His last words before the noose broke his neck were ‘A cursed ground bears only poisonous fruit’.”“Or so they say.” Jacob snorted and shook his head. “Whatever, dude. Stupid story about a whole bunch of dead people.” He nudged Shep with his shoulder and laughed. “Fuck’em. Let’s party.”The circle broke up in to smaller groups, twos and threes and fours, each cluster wandering away from the murder tree. Mandy gripped Elias’s arm tighter and shivered. “That was so scary, right?”“Right.” He wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not and the smell of her floral perfume was too distracting for him to try and figure it out one way or the other. “So, uh, did you want to go for a walk or something?”“A walk?” She laughed and shook her head. “Uh, no.” Still laughing, she slipped away from him, reaching up and pushing her shiny lemon-yellow hair behind her shoulders. “I actually need to go talk to Shanna about the routine for the game tomorrow.”“Right.” Elias nodded dumbly. “Uh, right. Good luck with that. I’ll just… go… talk to Isiah.”Elias hunched his shoulders, stalking over to the base of the murder tree. Isiah studied his face, rocking on his heels before sucking air through his teeth. “Man, that was an epic crash and burn. Epic.”“Shut up.” Elias punched him, pulling back at the last second. Isiah was nearly as skinny as Shep but more fragile looking, as if a good solid blow would break him in two. “She had to go do cheerleading stuff.”“Cheerleading stuff.” Isiah snorted. “She’s such a fucking tease.”“Dude, stop.” Elias looked up as another gust of wind shook the branches, a handful of leaves falling down around them like confetti. “Did you have to pick the coldest night ever to do this thing?”“Nah, that was just luck.” The other boy grinned and attempted to wiggle his eyebrows. “Pretty spooky, right?”“Whatever.” Elias nudged him with his elbow. “You bring any good snacks or what?”


About the Author:
L.M. Pruitt has been reading and writing for as long as she can remember. A native of Florida with a love of New Orleans, she has the uncanny ability to find humor in most things and would probably kill a plastic plant. She knows this because she's killed bamboo. Twice.  She is the author of the Winged series, the Plaisir Coupable series, Jude Magdalyn series, the Moon Rising series, and Taken: A Frankie Post Novel.
http://www.lmpruitt.org
https://www.facebook.com/pages/LM-Pruitt/364776895104
https://twitter.com/lmpruitt
http://www.amazon.com/L.M.-Pruitt/e/B00427WOW4/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4320796.L_M_Pruitt



Pre-order GiveawayOrder the book before April 18 and receivea free short story and signed bookmark
Please visit http://www.lmpruitt.org/SILK.php for details

Mob Enforcer Jake Caldwell from Poor Boy Road by James L. Weaver

When mob enforcer Jake Caldwell first appeared to me, he stood in the ramshackle living room of a shithole apartment, the muscles in his forearms popping like cords as he white-knuckled a raised baseball bat that trembled with indecision. The chipped and scraped crimson paint on the thick barrel resembling blood splatters that burst against the aluminum. Would he do it? Would he bring it crashing down on knees of the cowering man at his feet? Those were his orders. He knew he could do it, it wouldn’t be the first time. But, it didn’t mean that he would.
Why a mob enforcer? That’s a frequent question I get when people ask me about the main character of my new book Poor Boy Road. How can a leg breaker for the mob be your good guy? It’s not that hard to make such a jump. Movies are filled with mob guys that we love to root for. Joe Pesci as Tommy Devito in Goodfellas, Jack Nicholson as Frank Costello in The Departed, or my favorite duo John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson as Vincent and Jules in Pulp Fiction. They are the bad guys who live, not the life you and I would want, but one we find fascinating.
I knew I had a story about meth and ghosts of the past set in the Lake of the Ozarks in central Missouri. The loose tendrils of it whirled and swirled as I drove to a tiny cemetery down a winding country blacktop named Poor Boy Road. After the service, as I drove back to my father’s house, those tendrils wove themselves into bone that formed a skeleton of the story. Later, as my dad and I drove down some of the more seedier backroads, muscle attached itself to the bone and that familiar excitement writers get when they know something is far more than just a fleeting idea crept into my body.
As we passed an abandoned house, boards hanging off a dilapidated porch, the glass panes of the windows hanging like broken teeth, another picture of Jake Caldwell appeared. He stood outside his childhood home with a gun hanging down at his side, anger seething at what was done to him inside those walls and the man he’d become as a result of it. A man living a life of violence, a man seeking redemption. An image perfectly captured by E.L. Wicker and Lakewater Press, the book’s cover.
So, I had my guy, I had my setting and I had my plot line. All I needed was something Jake was running from and something he was running to. That’s when I jumped back to the visualization of him in that run down house to the apartment with the bat in his hand. Orders from his boss to liberally apply blunt force to some schmuck who didn’t have the money he owed the mob, and his conscious telling him he was becoming the very person he swore he’d never be. Add in the tension of Jake knowing that the redemption he seeks lay in doing the very acts he is trying to escape in the hometown he swore he’d never return to.  Sounds like one hell of a story.

So, does he swing the bat? Does he get his redemption? Well, dear reader, you’ll have to take the journey down Poor Boy Road to find out. I hope you find the trip worth taking.


Poor Boy RoadJake CaldwellBook OneJames L. Weaver
Genre: Thriller
Publisher: Lakewater Press
Date of Publication: March 21, 2016
ISBN 978-0-9944511-2-5ISBN: 978-0-9944511-3-2ASIN: B019X3WELC
Number of pages: 251Word Count: approx. 78,000
Cover Artist: E.L Wicker
Book Description:
As a mob enforcer, Jake Caldwell is in the dark business of breaking kneecaps and snapping bones. But each job sends him one step closer to turning into the man he swore he’d never become—his violent and abusive father. Leaving the mob is easier said than done. When his boss offers a bloody way out, Jake has no choice but to take it, even if it means confronting ghosts of old.
Arriving in his Lake of the Ozarks hometown, Jake has two things on his mind: kill ruthless drug lord Shane Langston and bury his dying father. What he doesn’t expect is to fall in love all over again and team up with his best friend Bear, the Sheriff of Benton County, to take Langston down. Racing through the countryside searching for Langston, the web of murder, meth and kidnapping widens, all pointing toward a past Jake can’t escape and a place he never wanted to return—Poor Boy Road.
Amazon


Second Excerpt
“Jake,” Jason Keats said as if greeting an old friend. The room reeked of earthy-toned cigar smoke. Keats pulled his black-suited frame from a leather recliner. His skin was cold and clammy as they shook hands. His peppered hair slicked back with too much gel. “How’s things?”“Been better. I need to bail for a few days. My old man’s dying and my sister needs me back home.”“Sorry to hear it. You close with your dad?”“No.”“Any particular reason?”“He’s an asshole.” He handed Keats the envelope. “Two grand from Carlos.”“He had it, eh?” “Yeah, shocked me, too.”Keats thumbed through the money in the envelope and raised it to his scarred nose, sniffing.“Doesn’t smell like Carlos. Smells like you.”Jake shrugged. “Smells like two Gs.”Keats smacked Jake on the chest with the envelope. His inviting mood dissolved. “What am I gonna do with you, Caldwell?”“In terms of what?”“In terms of you not doing what I fucking tell you to do.”“I got your money, Jason. Count it.”“I know it’s there.” Keats tossed the envelope on the mahogany desktop. “I told you to break this guy’s kneecaps. You going to float every piece of shit I send you to collect on?”“Isn’t breaking kneecaps kind of a stereotype?”“It’s effective.”“Guy can’t work if he can’t walk.”Keats sighed. “Are you trying to piss me off?”“Look, his daughter’s in the hospital and he’s got a pile of bills that would choke a horse.”“I’m not running a goddamn charity. Carlos didn’t use the money he borrowed for medical bills. He bet on a dog-shit horse and lost. Again. What’s really going on?”“Nothing,” Jake said, slumping in the chair in front of Keats’ desk.“Bullshit. How long you worked for me?”“I don’t know. Five years?”“Six if you count Oklahoma,” Keats said. “You were a dark soul who didn’t mind dishing it out.” “I still dish it out.”“Carlos is the third fuckin’ guy you’ve spotted this month. I got no use for someone who can’t follow simple orders.”There was no reason for Jake to lie. “It’s getting hard to sleep at night,” he said, focusing on his bad knee, avoiding Keats’ stare.“You want out?”
There it was, laid out for him.
About the Author:
James L Weaver is the author of the forthcoming Jake Caldwell thrillers Poor Boy Road and Ares Road from Lakewater Press. He makes his home in Olathe, Kansas with his wife of 18 years and two children. His previous publishing credits include a six part story called "The Nuts" and his 5-star rated debut novel Jack & Diane which is available on Amazon.com. Author note: a handful of the raters are actually not related to him.
His limited free time is spent writing into the wee hours of the morning, playing parental taxi cab to his kids' sporting endeavors, and binge watching Netflix.You can read his blog at weaverwrites.wordpress.com and follow him on Twitter @WildcatJim2112.
Blog: https://weaverwrites.wordpress.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28121043-poor-boy-road
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WildcatJim2112
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/James-L-Weaver-1561520517509056


a Rafflecopter giveaway

Perfect Sense by Amanda Cowen

Perfect SensePerfect SeriesBook OneAmanda Cowen
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Amanda Cowen Books
Date of Publication: March 22, 2016
Number of pages: 277Word Count: 79,000
Cover Artist: Sarah Hansen - Okaycreations
Book Description:
He’s gorgeous.
He’s reckless.
And he’s every woman’s dirty fantasy in the state of California.., except one… Quinn Ashby.
Recent graduate of Penn and top of her class, Quinn is whip smart, ambitious and interning as the new marketing coordinator for the Bexley Bruisers American Hockey League team. The last thing she needs is to waste her time on guys…especially one as lethal to her focus as Cash Brooks.
But once the bad boy hockey star tempts her into his world, threatening her professional future, she’s forced to decide whether to let him into her heart…or to leave him behind forever.

Excerpt:
I round the corner into the secluded hall leading to the washrooms, and my heart stops. Cash on the ice, sweaty and dressed in hockey equipment, was sexy, but the Cash sitting feet away, wearing an expensive modern-fit, pastel brown suit, is insanely hot. I eye the two women perched on either side of him on the red velvet chaise. To his right, a long-haired blonde with extensions rests a possessive hand on his chest. To his left, a woman with jet black hair toys with her side ponytail while running the fingers of her other hand through his wavy honey-colored hair. His piercing blue gaze snaps to mine, and he tilts his head to the side, studying me. A cocky grin curves his full lips. I move forward, unable to breathe as his stare slides down my peplum dress, stopping once at my breasts and once at my hips. His eyes lock with mine and I fiddle with the gold-toned slider bracelet around my wrist.  He pushes up from the chaise, abandoning the two women feeling him up in the corner. I turn away, and as my palm slams against the door of the ladies room, a big, warm hand closes around my wrist. Cash spins me around and I press back against the wall beside the door. He cages me, his palms flat on either side of my head. He leans toward me, his mouth inches from my face, so close I can the warmth of his breath tickling my cheek. He smells ridiculously good, like honey and cinnamon. “Mittens,” he whispers, his mouth dangerously close to my lips. “I didn’t peg you as the stalking type, especially since you took off after I scored that hard-earned goal for you.” What an arrogant bastard!I arch an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me? Do I know you?”His eyes flicker, and his lips curl in amusement. “Come on, Quinn. I don’t ever forget a pretty face. I’m willing to bet you don’t forget one either.” My heart pounds as I glare into his sharp baby blues. His sexy athletic build towers over me. He makes me feel even more petite than usual. I try to ignore the rise and fall on his muscular chest, but despite myself my nipples harden. Even though my body is betraying me, I refuse to act like every other puck bunny, falling at his feet. “You’re really full of yourself, aren’t you?” I say. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies room.”He chuckles, “How about you stop playing games with me and admit you came here looking for me.”I shoot him a disgusted look. “I’m not here for you.”Cash smiles at me with what I am guessing to be one of his most charmingly rehearsed expressions. He cocks his head to the side then bites his bottom lip like he is thinking about something. “Alright, since you want to play it that way…” He leans in close enough that I feel his stubble brush against my cheek. “Can I buy you a drink?” An unwelcome shiver of awareness shoots up my spine. “Listen, asshole. I am Hilton Ashby’s daughter and the newest employee in the Marketing and Promotions Department for the Bruisers. So if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside so I can freshen up, I would really appreciate it.”Cash’s dimples deepen, and a dangerous grin pulls at the corners of his lips. “Perfect, now I know where I can find you.” I feel myself weaken for a brief second at his smile, until I remind myself this guy is nothing but trouble. Wrapping my fingers tightly around his tie, I yank him against my chest, and whisper in his ear, “Stay away from me, Brooks. I don’t do arrogant dickheads.”
Cash looks straight into my eyes, his grin still in place. He runs a callused fingertip along my collarbone. “I’m not going anywhere.” He leans down, his lips close to mine.  “I promise you, this is just the beginning.”
About the Author:
Amanda Cowen can be found eating cupcakes, singing off-key, or watching a good RomCom when she isn't trapped on her computer writing stories. She is an "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" fanatic, a hater of roller-coasters and a country music junkie. She lives in Thunder Bay, ON where the summers are short and the winters are long.
Her next Contemporary Romance/New Adult Fiction novel PERFECT SENSE (The Perfect Series #1) will be available March 22, 2016.
Amanda would love to hear from her readers. Contact her via her website,become a fan on Facebook, follow her on Instagram, or on Goodreads.
www.amandacowen.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Amanda-Cowen-600953916598286/
Instagram - @authoramandacowen
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6913682.Amanda_Cowen

Release Day Blitz for The Passion Season by Libby Doyle

The Passion Season
Covalent Series
Book One
Libby Doyle


Genre: urban fantasy/paranormal romance
Publisher: Fairhill Publishing LLC
Date of Publication: March 20, 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9972985-0-5ASIN: B01CCE4U8E
Number of pages: 303 in ePubWord Count: 117,259
Cover Artist: Damonza
Book Description:

In loving him, she overcomes her pain, but to discover his true identity would shred the reality she thought she knew.
He is Barakiel. Warrior. Exile. Hopeless romantic. Barakiel is Covalent, a race of ancient beings who use their great power to keep the elemental forces of Creation and Destruction in Balance. The Covalent Council exiled Barakiel to the Earthly Realm as the price of the treachery of his father, Lucifer, who wages perpetual war against it. Lucifer also relentlessly pursues his son. The Council thinks Lucifer views his son’s power as a threat, but Barakiel knows his father seeks to destroy even the memory of love. 
She is Alexandra “Zan” O'Gara. FBI Agent. Army veteran. Recovering drunk. Zan’s troubled past left her with little interest in men, but she had never encountered anyone like the stunning Rainer Barakiel. Zan believes Rainer is a wealthy businessman with expertise in edged weapons who can help her with a case. From the moment she meets him she wants him more than she’s ever wanted anything, but her intense attraction is as frightening as it is thrilling.
This is their love story. As Zan’s deepening feelings for Rainer lead her to confront her emotional damage, he struggles to meet the demands of his home world so he will be free to love her, and to reveal his true nature. Through the gruesome crime that first brought Zan to his door, Barakiel learns that his presence in the Earthly Realm has placed some of its most vulnerable citizens in danger. Compelled to protect them, he undertakes a series of duties he may not survive, even as Zan rescues him from centuries of a deadened heart.
Book Trailer https://youtu.be/HGeVs2XgQjo
Amazon     iTunes     BN

Excerpt from part one, Vernal Equinox, Chapter 1
The front of the main building had a set of massive wooden double doors and a smaller heavy wooden door to the side with the bell. She rang, and when the door opened she forgot she was supposed to speak. He was gigantic, at least six foot eight, with broad shoulders and a lithe, athletic build. A few strands of his unruly, mid-length blond hair fell over eyes that seemed to be several shades of blue at once. They drew her in with more than their beauty, as if something primeval was hidden in their depths, just barely restrained. He faintly smiled. She knew her face was getting red.What the hell. Don’t be such a fool.“Um, hello, I’m Special Agent Alexandra O’Gara of the FBI.” She stuck out her hand. “My office made an appointment.”“Yes. I’m Rainer Barakiel. A pleasure to meet you.” His voice was rich and deep and he spoke with a slight accent. When he shook her hand, she held it too long. She still felt flushed.“I, um, I appreciate you taking the time for this, Mr. Barakiel.”“I’m happy to help.”God, so lame. He must have to deal with swooning women all the time, but I doubt he expected it from an FBI agent.Turning gracefully, he showed her through the door. Zan tried not to stare at the way his jeans fit his hips, or the contours of his muscles beneath his gray cashmere sweater. Gripped by a strong urge to run her hands all over him, she was lucky his place was filled with fascinating things to distract her. Antiques and art were arranged tastefully in the open space, among brown leather couches and chairs and colorful woven rugs. Pale sun from high skylights glinted off a sunburst mosaic above the mantle of a huge concrete fireplace. Zan tried to concentrate on her surroundings, at least until her pulse slowed down.“What a fantastic place.”“Thank you.” He dipped his head toward her in an old-fashioned display of manners that she found charming.“This whole property is great. What was it used for, before you lived here?”“This land was part of the old Rohm and Haas Chemical plant you can still see as you enter. The facility was shut down in 2010.”“I wish more people would reclaim these abandoned places by the river. Most of it just goes to waste, and meanwhile they’re developing Chester County farmland.”“Yes.” He looked at her intensely. “I felt good about redeveloping a brownfield. I had to do a lot of remediation, but now it’s an excellent place to live.”“All you need now is for the city to buy the front parcel and turn it into a park.” Zan gave him her best sunny smile, with an openness she knew made people trust her.“That would be ideal,” he replied, “but I’m not holding my breath.” He returned her smile.My god, you’re beautiful. How are you that beautiful? Why am I here? The knives.“Um, in the interest of not taking up any more of your time than necessary, these are the knives in question.” Zan held up the case. “Daggers, I think. Did Professor Carson explain where we found them?”“Superficially, yes.”“Well, someone conducted some kind of ritual in Independence National Historical Park. We wouldn’t be that concerned with weird people doing weird things at night, but we found a human spleen. We tested the DNA and ran it through the database and discovered that the spleen came from a body found this past winter by the Philadelphia police. All its internal organs had been removed. The police called us because they thought it might involve organ trafficking, but we never found any evidence of it, so we weren’t much help. No one ever filed a missing persons report on this man, and Philly PD was never able to identify the corpse, let alone solve the crime.”“Disturbing,” he said.“Very. We thought if you could tell us something about the knives it might give us some insight into what this whole thing was about, maybe generate some sort of lead. They look old, and Professor Carson said you are an expert in antique bladed weapons.”“Yes. I collect them. I’ve learned a lot over the years.”“Let’s take a look,” Zan said. He led her to a massive carved table to the left near the kitchen area. She opened the case and laid the daggers out on a cloth. After he leaned down to scrutinize them, he said they were ceremonial daggers and asked if he could pick them up. Zan told him that because they were evidence, he would need to wear latex gloves. She handed him a pair. He tried to put one on for a minute, then frowned at her.“I’m sorry. It’s too small.”Zan stared at his hands. They were huge, but not meaty. They looked like they could crush a man’s skull, but also assemble a fine Swiss watch.Or maybe gently touch me.She felt the heat rise to her face again. He raised an eyebrow.“You can use the glove like a handkerchief and just pick it up that way,” she said, fixing her gaze on the floor.Picking up a dagger, he held it level with his eyes. When he had done the same to all four and they were back in the case, he motioned Zan closer and directed her to lean down. He showed her the intricate motifs and the manner in which the blades were joined to the hilts. He explained that from these features, he could determine that the blades were ceremonial, made in France in the late 19th century. She struggled to listen to what he was saying. That impossible face was so close, and she could smell him. He smelled like a pristine forest in the spring.“What kind of ritual was it?” he asked. “These daggers would have been used for ceremonies, like the opening or closing of a formal meeting. They are valuable as antiques but they are not real weapons.”“We haven’t really explored the evidence in terms of the ritual yet, because we’ve been concentrating on the spleen.” Zan shook her head. “That sounds odd, doesn’t it?”“It’s an odd situation.”“If I showed you some crime scene photos, do you think you would have any insight?”He rubbed his chin. “I might be able to say whether the daggers were related to the ritual.”“That could be helpful. May I bring them by?” Zan asked, failing to disguise her pleasure at the idea.“I’m leaving town for a few days tomorrow. Can you come back this evening?”“Yes, I think so.” She paused to consider for a moment. “I need to remind you that you can’t discuss anything about this with anyone. Did you read the agreement?”“Yes. I understand that I’ve agreed to keep all this confidential.”“Good. I should be able to come back around 7:00.”“I’ll be here. In the meantime, if I may take some photos of these daggers, I can send a few emails. My contacts may be able to discover their provenance.”“That would be extremely helpful. Just don’t reveal that they were involved in a crime.” He nodded and began to snap pictures of the knives with his phone.“I have to say, Professor Carson was right,” Zan said. “I’m amazed you were able to identify a time period and a use for those in just a few minutes. I would love to have that kind of expertise. I know a lot about guns because it comes with the job, but I love edged weapons. They’re so elegant.”“Yes.” He looked at her intensely again. “Would you like to see my collection?”“It’s here?”“Of course.”“I’d love to.”Just great, O’Gara. One handsome face and you toss your professionalism right out the window.They moved to the left, behind the open kitchen, to an ultra-modern staircase of black and silver and honey-toned wood leading to a mezzanine lined with bookshelves. Zan enjoyed following him up the stairs.Look at that ass. That ass is perfect.They walked along the mezzanine to a huge sunny room at the back. Zan stood gaping when they entered. Save for several large windows, every square foot of the stucco walls was hung with bladed weapons: axes, pikes, halberds, and swords, mostly swords, in more styles and sizes than Zan knew existed. Wood and glass cases filled with daggers and other small blades sat at the far ends, with an island of leather couches and chairs at the center, rimmed around a thick Persian rug in velvety red.“This is the coolest room I have ever seen,” she said. He chuckled and thanked her.That was adorable. God. Get ahold of yourself.“So, um, Mr. Barakiel, what kind of time span do these weapons represent?” she asked.“Please, call me Rainer.” Zan flushed and looked up at him. He still had that adorable look on his face, like a little boy showing someone his secret clubhouse. Before she gave a thought to what she was doing, she had asked him to call her Zan.

About the Author:
Libby Doyle is the pen name of an attorney and former journalist who took a walk around the corporate world and didn’t like it. Considering she’s written an extravagant yarn filled with sex and violence, she thought a pen name would be prudent. She also thinks it’s kind of fun.
Libby grew up on the East Coast of the United States. She attended college in the 1980s and became immersed in the underground music scene. She met talented people and troubled people. She met people who taught her what it means to be your own person. In the 1990s, she went back to school to get a master's degree in journalism. Before beginning work in her chosen field, an attack of wanderlust set her traveling. For all that Libby loves books, she believes nothing compares to the education of travel.
After her wanderings, she returned to her career. For more than a decade, Libby worked as a journalist, until her interests led her to law school. She kept her full-time job while attending law school at night, the most brutal experience she’s ever had. She cursed her own stupidity countless times as her body and mind became sick with exhaustion, but she’s glad she did it.
Libby knows she’s a lucky woman. She’s had countless adventures, memories that feed her imagination. She stood atop a hill in Connemara in a cold wind, watching sunlight sparkle off the pristine sea below. She crested a trail after a grueling hike to find the glory of the Continental Divide spread before her. She was followed by a howler monkey in a Mexican jungle, shared the midday meal with Buddhist monks in Korea, and got pummeled by an opponent in a martial arts test in Japan. She trekked for days among the Himalayas, mountains so high and timeless they made her feel completely insignificant.
She’s married to a man who is funny and kind and patient enough to listen to her chatter on about her characters. They're not even real, but she feels like they're her friends. She’s confident they'll keep you entertained. Through her fanciful tale, she hopes they speak to you.
http://libbydoyle.com
http://libbydoyle.com/blog.html
https://www.facebook.com/thecovalent/
https://twitter.com/LibbyDoyle9
https://www.pinterest.com/libbydoylecom/the-passion-season/
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B01CUPIZOU

a Rafflecopter giveaway