Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 379

Interview with Kevin B. Henry

What inspired you to write this book?
I’ve always enjoyed stories about time travel. I also wanted to explore some of the first things that happened to Mitchell as he began travelling in time. After the first story was finished it just seem logical to continue his tale. Going back to the beginning was my next choice.
Please tell us about your latest release.
            Amber Prelude is the prequel to my first story, Amber Gifts. It tells the story of Mitchell’s first trip through time. It came about as I was writing the first story and wondering what I might do if I had the same opportunity and where I might go, what would I want to see? I might have made a very similar decision as Mitchell and had the same reactions he has.
What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?
            I really like the moments in the wheat fields of France. The scene almost wrote itself for me. I think I was as surprised as Mitchell is when he is given the item he receives in the field. It just all came together for me in one sharp and clear moment. It was fun.
Did you find anything really interesting while researching this or another book?
            I do so much research for my stories. I almost live online when I’m in the throes of writing. I also have used clips from the BBC, 60 Minutes and lots of things from PBS to help me with ideas and even some fact checking. My most interesting item from this story revolves around the death of a famous artist and the fact that there is some evidence that it didn’t really happen the way it has been reported.
Can you tell readers a little bit about the world building in the book/series? How does this world differ from our normal world?
            You mean beyond the whole time traveling part? I keep a list of the rules for time traveling. I have a list of years and locations. I really want my continuity to be as solid as possible. So far I haven’t really changed any history, although some of it has been bent quite a bit. No rules have been broken. That might come in a future story.
With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones?
            I want to think they can. Writing the second adventure first helped a little and I use the first bit of all the stories to explain time travel and how it works, who Mitchell is and what he is doing. Readers are intelligent. It only takes a paragraph or two to get them up to spend on what’s happening.
Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? How do you deal with it?
            I was having trouble with my third story (Amber Legacy, available November 2015) and stopped for almost a week. I didn’t know where to go next. I finally realized that my writing could be just like the structure of my stories, non-linear. I jumped to the end and finished that, then did a chapter about two-thirds through the story and finally I was able to go back to my trouble spot and move along. It’s an interesting realization.
When did you consider yourself a writer?
          I’ve always been a storyteller. I tried writing other things early on but none of it stuck long enough to be finished. I keep trying little things until eventually I struck upon the story of Amber Gifts. I guess I always thought of myself as a writer, a frustrated non-published writer. I really started calling myself an author or a writer when I was able to go online and see one of my stories available from an actual publisher.
What was the last amazing book you read?
            Skin Game by Jim Butcher was my latest read. Everything Jim writes impresses me. I’ll finish one of his stories and realize how much I have to ratchet up the quality of my own writing. I don’t know him, we’ve never met but my proudest day was when one of his books was in the list of recommended reading under my story. I know it’s just a silly algorithm, but it made me happy at the moment.
What can readers expect next from you?
            In November of this year Champagne will release Amber Legacy, the third story in the Amber Gifts series. After that will be a fourth story that I’m currently writing.
Where can readers find you on the web?

            Easiest place is to go to ambergifts.blogspt.com. All of my information is located there.
Amber PreludeAmber GiftsPrequelKevin B. Henry
Genre: Fantasy, Time Travel, Science Fiction, and History
Publisher: Burst/ Champagne Books
Date of Publication: June 01, 2015
Word Count: 20,000
Formats available: eBook, PDF
Cover Artist: Ellie Smith
Book Description:
Mitchell didn't really believe the story the Man told him, Just take a sip and speak a year. He whimsically chose a historic event to witness. Little did he know he would become part of that history. Faster than you can say Teithwyr Amser our man Mitchell is chasing a bona fide assassin not only across America but across time.
Amber Prelude will require Mitchell to travel from the America he knows to France and Africa. He will travel to decades and centuries he is unfamiliar with. Mitchell will chase authentic villains and make historic friends, all in an attempt to set history back the way he remembers.

Excerpt Chapter One
1963: New MexicoIt had started simply. I uncapped the vial, drank the liquid, and spoke the year I had chosen aloud. The room spun. I dissolved.I anticipated nothing happening. I began by sitting at the old wooden table feeling numb. My expectations extended to looking for shelter the following morning. Maybe I would move under a bridge for a short time; maybe I would do something much worse to myself.I’d experienced severely morbid thoughts for months. Moving often transformed me.  A nightmarish combination of a manic and depressed person was all I had been until the vial. It continued for months, and I expected it to continue forever. What I didn’t expect was a twisting feeling in my chest and lower abdomen. It wasn’t painful, just an unusual feeling. I didn’t expect the room to blur. I blinked several times, but it wasn’t my eyes; the room was blurry. Soon the room ceased to exist.I had not spent long hours considering the year I would move to. I flippantly selected 1963. It would give me almost ten years before my birth moment and I vanished from the universe forever. The Man was specific about not existing past my birth moment. It would give me a chance to see some of the most tumultuous years in America, civil rights marches, hippies, the moon landing. My choice of year would give me a chance to stand at Dealey Plaza and personally see if there was a second shooter. It was a shallow choice, but it was the best I could come up with.My first thought as the world congealed around me was that I had said something wrong. Had I said 1863? It was night. The stars above me were crisp and clear. Sagebrush surrounded me in all directions. Gone were the smells of the city. My senses absorbed a clean, fresh smell. This was how I remembered the world use to be. A scrub oak blended with the evening shadows just a few feet to my right. To my left was a light in the distance, a campfire. The flames created dancing shadows on the two trees surrounding the fire. Someone sat next to the fire, stirring the flames, sparks rising into the starry sky.I walked toward the fire. I didn’t see that I had any choice; every other direction was pitch-black. Halfway there he rose from his place at the fire and raised his left hand above his head.He sparkled. It wasn’t anything residual from the fire. His whole body twinkled and sparkled. It was disturbing.“About time, Mitchell,” he yelled. “I’ve been waiting here for damn near three days.” “Come on in. I’m sure you have questions, son.”I got over my initial anxiety of the twinkle man and sat on the far side of the fire. We had been sitting before the fire for fewer than five minutes. I was dazed, confused, and overwhelmed. Less than an hour ago, I was sitting in a dingy, two-bit hotel room.Now, here I was, in some large expanse of desert in the company of someone who looked like Ray Teal, that quintessential sheriff on so many TV westerns and movies. He wore standard blue jeans, a simple button-front dress shirt, and a light-gray jacket. This twinkle man had a slouch hat, not exactly cowboy, but not a fedora either. He was half a foot shorter than me, stockier, and a minimum of twenty-five-years older, if I had to guess his age. There was salt and pepper stubble covering his face. His voice was deeper than mine, but not so deep that I envied it.“Okay,” I began. “Where am I?”“New Mexico,” he answered without hesitation. “You’re about three miles east of Tucumcari.”I considered that answer. “When am I?”“It’s November, 1963.”“What’s the date, the day?” It concerned me I might miss my reason for picking this year.“It’s the sixth.” A wave of relief swept over me. I wasn’t too late.His answers were rapid-fire, no pauses or measurable moments that I would have considered creative thinking. He was either telling the truth or extremely well prepared for my random questions. I tried to think of the relevant questions I should ask. The standard ones, who, what, when, where, seemed a good place to start.“How did I get here?”“Well now, that’s an obvious answer to a poorly considered, ill-thought out question.” He shook his head. “You took a drink from that vial you have tucked away in your jacket pocket.”A sudden gust of wind caused me to wrap my windbreaker tighter around my body. Maybe it wasn’t the night air. I was a little hurt. It wasn’t an attempt at sounding stupid; just understand what had happened to me.“How did you know I was coming?” Maybe that question would seem less inept.“Now that’s complicated.” He answered this question more slowly. He was thinking more and not just responding. “My name is Gil, Gil Seward. I got a letter just a few days ago. It asked me to come here and see if you’d appear. The letter said to just wait here a while and see if you drank from the vial or not. If you did, I’m supposed to help you out a little. Get you started and send you on your way.”“Asked by whom? That guy who gave me the vial?”“Yeah” was his only response. I hate one-word answers.“Who was he? Why did he give me this vial?”“He was someone I owed a favor. I haven’t seen him for a long time. He isn’t someone you need to know. Forget him. I don’t know why he decided to give you his vial. He just did.”He paused for a while, stirring the fire with his stick, a small branch from one of the nearby trees.“One last question for now,” he said. “Make it a good one.”“Okay, Gil,” I said, using his name for the first time. “Why the hell do you sparkle? You look like some creation by Industrial Light, a special effect in a vampire or science fiction movie.”“Forgot all about that,” he laughed. “You sparkle too. You just can’t see it. You started as soon as you drank from the vial. All Amser will sparkle.”“What’s an Amser?”“Sorry, Mitchell, You’ve reached your limit on questions for now. It’s my turn to ask some.”I started to say something, but the look on his face made me stop. I hoped that ‘for now’ meant there would be more answers in the future.“What made you pick this year?”“It wasn’t a rational decision. Who would believe this would really work? I figured I’d see something special, something historic. Dallas and the Kennedy assassination was a significant event in my life. All the other conspiracy theories I remember while growing up could never surpass this one event. Standing on the grassy knoll and knowing beyond a doubt if there was or wasn’t a second shooter seemed as good an idea as any.”“With all of history to choose from, you wanted to watch somebody die?”“That wasn’t my motivation.” I said “I thought of it more as watching a documentary on TV.”“We’ll see what you think of your documentary as you watch it live. Did you have plans afterward?”“I don’t have many concrete plans. Just live out the next decade before I die.”“Why would you want to die?”“The Man said I couldn’t live past my birth moment. That was another reason I came here. That gives me several years to live before that time.”“He didn’t tell you?”“Tell me what?”“You have it all wrong, Mitchell. You can use that vial repeatedly. Just refill it. You can travel to any year, any time, as often as you want, as many times as you want. You’re not stuck in this year or decade forever.”
I’m not sure my mouth actually fell open, but that is how I remember it.
About the Author:
From an early age, Kevin B. Henry was a voracious reader. His collection of science fiction, fantasy and mystery books bring tears of envy to the eyes of many small community libraries.
Kevin has worked as an educator, technology specialist and day laborer most of his adult life. During all that time he lived the life of a frustrated author. That it took 30 years for him to piece together the series, Amber Gifts is a testament that the best meals need slow cooking to bring out the flavor.
The Amber Gifts Series begins with Amber Gifts. The second story, which is really the first, is Amber Prelude, and is available now. The third story, Amber Legacy continues where Amber Gifts left off. It will be available in November 2015. All are published by the wonderful folks at the Champagne Book Group. A fourth story is in the process of being written.
Kevin is a natural story teller, so it’s logical that he lectures occasionally. Topics range from the implementation of cutting edge technology hardware to the creation, modification and use of e-books within education. He constantly pursues research to expand his range of possible topics. His most recent research revolved around the aerodynamic properties of reindeer. He’s also been known to include little known facts and trivia within his presentations. Did you know just 146 years ago today the Union Army marched into Atlanta. It took longer than anticipated. They were delayed by a traffic jam on I-75 and the toll booth on Ga. 400
He continues to live in the Mid-West without human or domesticated mammal companionship.
Blog/Wesbite: www.ambergifts.blogspot.com
Twitter:        @Kevin_Henry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/AmberGifts

June 2 Guest blogThe Creatively Green Write at Home Momwww.creativelygreen.blogspot.com
June 3 SpotlightLisa’s World of Bookswww.lisasworldofbooks.net
June 4 SpotlightFantasy Book Lanehttp://www.fantasybooklane.com/
June 5 InterviewDeal Sharing Auntwww.dealsharingaunt.blogspot.com 
June 8 InterviewFang-tastic Bookswww.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com
June 9 Spotlight3 Partners in Shopping, Nana, Mommy, & Sissy, Too!  http://3partnersinshopping.blogspot.com/
June 10 InterviewEclipse Reviewswww.totaleclipsereviews.blogspot.com
June 11 Character InterviewAuthor Karen Swartwww.authorkarenswart.blogspot.com
June 12 Guest BlogRoxanne’s Realmwww.roxannerhoads.com
June 15 SpotlightRomance That's 'Out Of This World'www.hywelalyn.blogspot.com
June 15 Interview/FeatureBewitching Book Tours Magazinewww.issuu.com/bewitchingbooktours

For Damon Fans

Interview Fire’s Field by Jillian Jacobs

What inspired you to write this book?Initially, when reading vampire-based paranormals, I was struck by how the vampires lived off blood, which led to how humans need water to survive. So, I developed a character who lived by water alone. Maya, my water-girl in Water’s Threshold, started the whole thing. Book #2, Fire’s Field is obviously about fire, and the third and final book is Air’s Vision. Using the elements for a series was unique, at least based on my reading, so I thought why not.  Do you try to match a name with a certain meaning to attributes of the character? For my Elementals series, yes, every name holds significance in some language or other in regards to their element. Levina means “lighting bolt” in Latin. Schwarz is means black in German. Flint, well I don’t have to explain that, right?Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others?Quint. He says whatever he wants and damn the consequences. He cares for no one but himself. I love writing villains.
What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?Favorite scene is when Violet’s has a bit too much to drink at the restaurant. The second scene is at the end when Violet and Flint are discussing their opinions of Death. Also, I love the scene where Flint discovers a little tid-bit Violet neglected to mention. He’s not too happy. ;)
Can you tell readers a little bit about the world building in this series? How does this world differ from our normal world?The series revolves around characters that rejuvenate and control their specific element. Also, they each have one special gift, given by Mother Nature. They are meant to help protect Earth and its people. They can communicate with each other with their minds, and can read, control, and alter human thoughts.
With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones?With this series, yes, you could read them as stand alones, but for the best reading experience start with Book 1, Water’s Threshold.
Do you find it difficult to write in multiple genres?Paranormal is actually easier to write, because you create the world and rules.
When did you consider yourself a writer? Honestly, it wasn’t until I had the print book of Water’s Threshold in hand. That made it real.
Where is your favorite place to read? Do you have a cozy corner or special reading spot?Upstairs in my Lazyboy with a hot cup of tea.
    10. What can readers expect next from you?
The second book in my O-line Contemporary series, Rachel’s Guard. Air’s Vision, the final book in Elementals series comes out First Quarter 2016. I can’t pump out a book every other month. This writing gig is hard-core, finger burning work.




Fire’s Field,The Elementals SeriesBook 2Jillian Jacobs
Book Description:
Bound by a dark enchantment, only an elemental flame can light the way.
Vengeance
Forged in rage and sorrow, a dark witch’s spell travels down her ancestral line to Violet Levina. Enchanted with the power of the entire Electromagnetic spectrum—microwaves, gamma rays, radio waves, Violet is cursed with limitless energy and the obligation to destroy an insidious creature composed of dark matter.
Justice
For over five hundred years, Flint has served as Fire, aiding Earth’s environment and its people as one of four Elementals. Yet only once in his long existence has he been burned. A flaming redhead ignites the embers of his heart, but he finds her resistant to the heat building between them.
Illumination
Knowing she must fulfill her destiny, Violet travels to her ancestral home in Ireland, accompanied by the fiery Elemental. Not fooled by his charms and brazen demeanor, Violet wishes only to shield him from the coming battle, but can’t deny the flames of desire flickering when she is at his side.
Love
While standing together against unrelenting adversaries, false friends, family betrayals, and an underlying seed of darkness, they must burn bright or the ruthless power behind the ancient spell will turn everything to ash.

With Flint as her beacon in a field of darkness, Violet will discover that love holds the most powerful magic of all.
Fire’s Field Prologue Excerpt:
They were coming for her.On the eve of her mother’s 25th birthday, a young witch fought back chills as the sounds of braying bloodhounds echoed through the forest. A single red stroke, mixed with the faintest purple, lit the darkening sky, as night, along with death, crept closer.At the banks of River Nore, Sorcha rocked back and forth, tears of innocence-lost escaping down her cheeks. Heart splintering, she searched her memory for a spell to ease her mother’s torment. With her hands locked in the fabric of her mother’s woolen dress, she chanted pleas to the Goddess Isis to hear her cries and heal her mother.To no avail.The only answer came in the form of the demon’s sickness dripping from her mother’s mouth in a sludge of grimy gray mud.Fear unlike anything she’d ever felt iced her heart, as once more she begged, swore her very life in exchange for the continued beat of her mother’s heart.A piercing pain shot through her overburdened mind as the beast fought to break through her mental shields. Weakened by her angst and un-tested youth, she left a crack exposed, and the beast slipped in. Squinting her eyes closed, her entire body shaking with the will to deny the sick beast entrance, she couldn’t prevent his foul words from seeping through.“Your mother paid for her defiance, for her inability to accept this gift only I could give her. Look at you simpering and shaking, if you weren’t so weak I’d use you, but no matter, I’ll be back.”Drained from holding back the tempest, Sorcha let loose true sobs for the loss of the deepest love of her life, her solid fortress during every storm, the lyrical voice singing away her nightmares. Ignoring her drenched skirts, she released all her torment against her mother’s breast, barely catching the beat of her mother’s weakening heart between each aching moan torn from the depths of her soul.No one came to her aid. No one soothed her broken spirit.The sounds of the hounds drew closer, their howls a mad cacophony in her surreal world. The yellow-glow from fire-tipped sticks, created a mystical glow in the woods before her. Snaps and cracks of branches reverberated across the forest as the frenzied townspeople advanced to accuse and convict one of their own—a witch.



About the Author:
In the spring of 2013, Jillian Jacobs changed her career path and became a romance writer. After reading for years, she figured writing a romance would be quick and easy. Nope! With the guidance of the Indiana Romance Writers of America chapter, she’s learned there are many "rules" to writing a proper romance. Being re-schooled has been an interesting journey, and she hopes the best trails are yet to be traveled.
Water’s Threshold, the first in Jillian’s Elementals series, was a finalist in Chicago-North’s 2014 Fire and Ice contest in the Women’s Fiction category.
Jillian is a: Tea Guzzler, Polish Pottery Hoarder, and lover of all things Moose.
The genres she writes under are: Paranormal and Contemporary with suspenseful elements.

Website: www.jillianjacobs.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/GreenMooseProd
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jillian-Jacobs/737689872920933

www.creativelygreen.blogspot.com 

Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire by Victoria Danann

Two Princes: The Biker and The BillionaireSons of SanctuaryBook 1Victoria Danann
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Publisher: 7th House Publishing,Imprint of Andromeda LLC
Date of Publication: June 16, 2015
Number of pages: 300Word Count: 90,000
Cover Artist: Victoria Danann
Book Description:
Brigid Roan is a graduate student at the University of Texas. She had no trouble getting her thesis approved, but finding a Hill Country motorcycle club willing to give her access to their lifestyle had started to seem impossible. Then she got a lead. A friend of a friend had a cousin with ties to The Sons of Sanctuary.
What she wanted was information to prove a proposition. What she didn’t want was to fall for one of the members of the club. Especially since she had set out to prove that motorcycle clubs are organized according to the same structure as primitive tribal society.
Brash Fornight was standing in line at the H.E.B. Market when his world tipped on its axis. While waiting his turn to check out, his gaze had wandered to the magazine display and settled on the new issue of “NOW”. The image on the cover, although GQ’d up in an insanely urbane way, was… him.
After reading the article, Brash threw some stuff in a duffle and left his club, The Sons of Sanctuary, with a vague explanation about needing a couple of days away. He left his Jeep at the Austin airport and caught a plane for New York, on a mission to find the guy who was walking around with his face.
Two brothers, one a player, one a playboy, are on a collision course with destiny and a woman who thought she won a prize when she was allowed a look inside the Sons of Sanctuary MC.

Available at Amazon  BN   Kobo   iTunes

Excerpt:
“Sir?” Brash Fornight gradually became aware that someone behind him in the grocery checkout line was trying to get his attention. “Sir?” He refocused and glanced behind him. The woman leaning on a cart overflowing with chip bags and cookie boxes nodded toward the cashier indicating that it was his turn to move forward. Brash looked her in the eye and had to give her props. Most people wouldn’t have the balls to try to herd a guy wearing Sons of Sanctuary MC leather. The club employed a woman who cooked and did grocery shopping several times a week as part of her job description, but Brash didn’t like to explain his relentless craving for peanuts and he liked being teased about it even less. He didn’t know whether it was the Vitamin B or the fat or just because he liked the taste, but he couldn’t imagine going a day without them. That’s how he came to be standing statue still In the grocery checkout line, being prompted by some woman with more nerve than sense. While he was waiting, his eyes drifted over the magazine display and settled on the cover of “NOW”, on the Most Eligible Bachelor edition no less. The debonair figure staring back was wearing Brash’s own face and body. He looked different with short hair and a four thousand dollar suit with the shirt fashionably open at the neckline, but the similarity was inescapable.On impulse he grabbed the magazine and tossed it onto the conveyor belt with his week’s stash of peanuts. He stuffed the bags into the saddlebags of his bike and roared toward home, nervously tapping his fingers on handlebars at red lights, riding on shoulders to keep from slowing down. He was anxious to get to the privacy of his own room and read about Branach St. Germaine. Two beers, one jar of peanuts, and one “NOW” article later, Brash was sitting on the edge of his bed looking at the wall, seeing nothing but his own heavy thoughts. He pulled out his phone, looked up a website, and waited on hold for ten minutes to hear the time of the next flight from Austin to New York.
There was a flight to Newark in a little over three hours. He looked at his watch and calculated the time it would take to drive from Dripping Springs at that time of day. As he booked the flight, he stood up, walked to the small closet, grabbed a duffel bag, and began shoving stuff into it. Ten minutes later, he closed his door and locked it, threw the duffel over his shoulder, and headed straight for the office downstairs. He dropped the duffel on the hallway floor beside the closed door and knocked.“Yeah?” Brash looked inside, glad that his dad was by himself, and stepped in. “What’s up?”“I’m takin’ personal time, Pop. Gonna be gone for a couple of days.”“What the hell is ‘personal time’?”The gruffness made Brash smile. “It means I’m not gonna be here if you call and I’m not tellin’ you why.”The Sons of Sanctuary President looked up at Brash, over the top of his readers, and narrowed his eyes. “You got a secret?”“Everybody’s got secrets.”Brandon Fornight studied his son for a minute. “True enough. Is it the kind of secret that could affect this club?”Brash shook his head. “Don’t see how.”“Well, then. See you… When did you say you’d be back?”“I didn’t.”“Bein’ purposefully vague, are you?”Brash grinned. “That’s why they call it personal time. But I expect to be back Friday.”“You gonna have your phone with you?” When Brash nodded, Bran looked back down at his ledger in a deliberately dismissive gesture. “Well, get outta here then.”Brash parked his bike in the airplane hangar. The structure had already been on the property when the club had bought it and turned it into a compound twenty years earlier. They used part of it for vehicle maintenance and repair and part for parking.Some of the guys who were working looked over and shot curious glances his way when Brash threw his duffel into his pickup and started it up, but it wasn’t their way to ask questions. The Sons figured that if somebody wanted you to know something, they’d tell you.Brash took a cab to a midtown hotel, wondering all the way why human beings would choose to live in such a place. As he slid his credit card across the hotel counter to the agent on duty, he glanced at the name, Brandon Fornight. It seemed unlikely that it was a coincidence that that the mysterious look-alike’s first name began with the same four letters. He ordered room service and pulled out his laptop.Getting intel on the guy didn’t take advanced ops. Within an hour Brash knew where Brannach St. Germaine worked, what kind of car he drove, what kind of women he dated, who his tailor was, and where he liked to dine. There was no shortage of photos online, but the one that grabbed his attention wasn’t one of the many with starlets or debutantes on his arm. It was the one taken with his arm around his mother as they were arriving together for some red carpet fundraiser. Brash had an almost irresistible compulsion to reach up and touch her face on the screen in front of him. The knock on the door signaled that room service had arrived. It cost a fortune, but looked and tasted like shit. So he closed the computer and went out for a walk to clear his head and find something edible.


About the Author:
USA Today Bestselling Author, Victoria Danann, is making her debut into Contemporary Romance with releases in May and June 2015, after taking the world of PNR by storm.
Her Knights of Black Swan series won Best Paranormal Romance Two years in a Row (2013, 2014). ~Reviewers Choice Awards, The Paranormal Romance Guild.
Victoria’s paranormal romances come with uniquely fresh perspectives on “imaginary” creatures, characters, and themes. She adds a dash of scifi, a flourish of fantasy, enough humor to make you laugh out loud, and enough steam to make you squirm in your chair. 
Her heroines are independent femmes with flaws and minds of their own whether they are aliens, witches, demonologists, psychics, past life therapists, or financial analysts from Dallas. Her heroes are hot and hunky, but they also have brains, character, and good manners – usually – whether they be elves, demons, berserkers, werewolves, or vampires.
The first book of the Knights of Black Swan Paranormal Romance Series, My Familiar Stranger, was nominated for Best Paranormal Romance of 2012 by both Reviewers’ Choice and Readers’ Choice Awards. All of her books have opened on the Amazon Best Sellers list and earned Night Owl Reviews Top Pick awards.
Many have appeared on Listopia Book of the Month as #1 across all genres.
For books published in 2013, Black Swan won three awards.
1. Best Paranormal Romance Series2. Best Paranormal Romance Novel – A SUMMONER’S TALE
3. Best Vampire~Shifter Novel – MOONLIGHT.
In 2014, Solomon’s Sieve won Best Vampire Novel.
If you’re interested in me personally, I am also a classically trained musician who defected to Classic Rock and that’s my first love. Yeah. Even more than writing.
This is Roadhouse, the very best in Classic Rock, taken near The Last Concert Cafe, Houston Texas, 2011. I was the utility player which means I played rhythm guitar, keyboards, sang backups and a few leads.
www.facebook.com/vdanann   
www.facebook.com/authorvictoriadanann
https://www.facebook.com/groups/772083312865721/777140922359960/
https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/108735-victoria-danann-order-of-the-black-swan
@vdanann
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Blitz and Giveaway- Fate Undone by Linsey Hall

Fate UndoneMythean ArcanaBook 5Linsey Hall
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Bonnie Doon PressDate of Publication:  May 20
ISBN: 978-1-942085-40-9ASIN: B00XD9DOLC
Number of pages: 350Word Count: 82,000
Cover Artist: Damonza
Book Description: (Can be read as a standalone)
A god in disguise
No one in the Prison for Magical Deviants knows that prisoner Logan Laufeyson has secret identity. He is the ancient trickster god Loki, in magical disguise on a mission of his own. A mission that will come to a sudden and disastrous end…
The woman he's never forgotten
Demi-goddess Sylvi has spent eight hundred years trying to forget her long-ago affair with Loki, which destroyed her dreams and got her banished from her home. When Loki escapes from prison and stumbles through her door with a problem that threatens both their lives, she must set aside her anger while trying to resist a passion she’s never forgotten. The fact that her magic can be enhanced by sex makes ignoring Loki even harder—especially when they must utilize her rare talent.
A threat of ultimate evil
Thrown together, Loki and Sylvi must foil a masterful plot that threatens not only their lives, but every god in existence. It will take all of their power, and all of their long-buried love, to face the ultimate danger - or vanish and be forgotten forever…

Available at Amazon
PROLOGUEAsgard, Afterworld of the Norse Gods1213 AD
Pain tore through Loki’s chest, burning through every vein in his body. He roared, his muscles straining against the chains that bound him to the rock. Despite his godly strength, he could not break them. Above him, the great snake draped over a tree limb, dripping venom onto his chest. Its yellow eyes gleamed, watching him as the fluid seeped from its fangs.The venom sizzled when it hit his skin, eating through to the muscle underneath. His heart must be beating against the air now, no longer protected within its cage of flesh.“You went too far, Loki,” roared Odin, the greatest of the Norse gods.Loki wanted to yell back at him, at the crowd of gods who stood around him, but words could not form on his tongue. I’d do it again, he would shout, if only the pain hadn’t stolen his words.“You’ll stay here until Ragnarok, when the final battle shall take your life. It is a fitting punishment for your crimes,” Odin said. The snake’s venom dripped again, shooting pain through Loki’s body until his vision blurred. He could barely see the other gods nodding their heads before they turned in unison and walked out of the clearing in which he was trapped.Bastards. But he hadn’t seen Sigyn. His love hadn’t been with them, thank gods.The venom dripped again, pouring from the snake’s mouth in quantities only magic could create. Loki roared, his voice hoarse, and almost passed out from the pain. A feminine scream pulled him from the daze.Suddenly, delicate hands reached out over his chest, attempting to catch the venom before it fell onto him. Sigyn.“No!” he roared, fear for her helping him find the strength to form words. He was close to blacking out from the pain.When the venom dripped onto her palm, she collapsed to her knees. He craned his head to see her, slumped against the stone upon which he was bound, her golden hair concealing her face. She’d passed out from the pain.Terror for her stole the breath from his lungs. He’d been angry about this punishment, but never afraid. Not until it risked her. She must leave here. His vengeance against the gods had been necessary and just. But he didn’t want her to suffer for it. If the other gods knew how he felt about her, they might punish her too. She’d done nothing wrong, but it wouldn’t stop them.He couldn’t bear to think of her suffering. It was a pain worse than the venom. He strained against the bonds, attempting to break them so he could drive her away.She moaned, then sat up. When her gaze landed upon his face, her eyes widened. “Go,” he rasped. “Go from here.”She pushed herself up and leaned over him, her tears dripping upon his face.“Go.” His voice was so rough it was almost gone. He had to make her leave. His pursuit of vengeance put her at risk. She would hate him for that. Would likely never forgive him. “Never. I’ll get you out of—”He roared when venom dripped into his wound, the pain finally taking him into the blackness.
CHAPTER ONE
Prison for Magical Deviants, Immortal UniversityEdinburgh, Scotland
Logan Laufeyson gritted his teeth as the guard removed the manacles from his wrists and shoved him into his damp stone cell. The familiar rage at his powerlessness welled and he breathed deeply to tamp it down, counting back from ten. He had more important things to be worried about than an asshole guard.He’d only been in this hell three months, after all, and it was temporary. Barely anything compared to the tortures he’d suffered in the past or the century that his friend Ian had been locked in here before Logan had taken his place. He’d been a bastard for leaving Ian rotting in here for so long, but it had been necessary. Logan dragged his shirt over his head and used it to scrub the grit off his face. The worst thing about the daily prison work detail which he’d just returned from was the damned sand in the afterworld of Moloch. The best thing about prison work detail was that the hellish Moloch was exactly what he’d been looking for when he’d broken into the Prison for Magical Deviants three months ago. He didn’t mind spending twelve back-breaking hours a day hauling rocks, not once he’d realized that the stone was being used to construct the place he’d been hunting for nearly a century. He could use that time to learn enough about it to destroy it.Though washing the sweat and grime off himself would be the greatest pleasure he had all day, he ignored the leaky hose in the corner of the cell in favor of using his magic to change his clothes. He closed his eyes and envisioned a shirt and pants identical to the ones he wore as his usual prison uniform—black on black. Not so different from his normal attire.What was different, however, was his face. He ran his hand over his unfamiliar nose and jaw. He was full shapeshifter, able to adopt any identity of man or beast. Since he was in this prison to take his friend’s place, he’d adopted a copy of his friend Ian’s face. Alone in his cell, he could change back to the looks he adopted normally. It, too, was a disguise, but he’d worn it for centuries and it was comfortable by now. He had no watch and no window, so no way to tell time. But he could count on the prison schedule to be military precise, and every seven days, directly after he was shoved back in his cell, he had a meeting.He listened carefully at the heavy wooden door for footsteps. Silence. It was highly unlikely anyone would come to his cell before a guard brought a miserly dinner in an hour. Once he was confident there was nothing but silence in the hall, he moved to the corner that would be hidden by the door if it opened.Logan drew in a deep breath and held out his hands, envisioning flame. A fire, two feet tall and at least as wide, burst into life in the corner, as if a hearth had been built. After a moment, a face appeared. The seer was always on time for their meetings.“Loki,” she said, the image of her face flickering in the light of the flame.“Logan,” he corrected. “Fine. Logan."He was the Norse trickster god Loki, but he went by Logan to protect himself from the wrath of the other Norse gods. He also consistently used his shapeshifting to alter his face. He had the same dark hair and eyes as he’d had as Loki, but his face was shaped differently enough that no one would recognize him.He’d buried his identity as Loki deep in the past. “Do you have anything for me?” he asked. He was so certain she would say no, as she had at every other meeting, that he nearly lost control of the flame when she answered.“Yes. It’s almost time. The Labyrinthine Prison of Lethe will be complete in no more than two weeks.”Adrenaline spiked through him, driving through his veins and making his mind hum. “Two weeks? That’s all? Damn it, what kind of seer are you that you couldn’t see it sooner?”“The best.” She smirked. “Of which you are well aware, or you wouldn’t pay me so much money. Visions come when they come. You need to quit with the recon or protecting your friend or whatever it is you’re doing in there and go get whatever’s at the end of the map I gave you.”She was right. There was no question he had to leave the Prison for Magical Deviants. He wasn’t learning anything new here now and Ian MacKenzie, his only friend, was safely out of Scotland. “Fine,” he said. “You’re certain of this? I’ve been on Moloch every day for three months, helping to build the labyrinth, and it doesn’t look nearly finished.” In an ironic twist of fate, the university prison was using prisoners to construct a far greater monstrosity than the one he’d been caged in—an inescapable labyrinth prison that would capture and contain the gods. Like himself. Like Sigyn.He sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen.“Yes. I believe the prison is designed to make you forget. I saw more in this vision than in all the others. It’s called the Labyrinthine Prison of Lethe because the Architect of the prison has diverted the waters of the River Lethe. He’s created a portal to the Greek afterworld that allows the river to flow through the labyrinth.”“What the hell?” He hadn’t heard the name of the river that ran through Hades in centuries. The River of Forgetfulness made those who drank from it forget their lives.“If you’re imprisoned—which you will be, as all gods will be—you’ll forget yourself entirely. As will the world. I believe the river Lethe is making even the builders forget what they’ve built. It’s part of the torture of the labyrinth—to endlessly toil yet believe you make no progress.”He scrubbed a hand over his face. This was a hell of a lot worse than he’d anticipated. Aleia’s prophesies always came true. Always. The cocky part of him had always kind of thought he’d be able to break out of the prison if he were thrown in.But from what Aleia was saying, it sounded like the river Lethe had already fucked with his mind. If the prison was completed, he would end up there as prophesied. With the river working on his mind, there’s no way he’d find his way out before he forgot.“It looks like my time here is up. I’ll contact you if I need you again,” Logan said.“Aye aye, boss.” She disappeared into the flames.Logan thrust aside the chilling thought of losing his memory in the labyrinth and focused on what was next.Escape.His heart sped at the idea of finally being able to break out of this hell hole. With the wheels of the Labyrinthine Prison finally turning, he couldn’t stay, hoping for more information. Aleia had informed him of the prison’s construction over a century ago. After a hundred years of searching for it, he was suddenly running out of time.Speaking of time… The guard would arrive with “dinner” any minute. It took only seconds to tear off strips of the bed sheet. He took up position at the door and quieted his mind, listening for the coming footsteps of the burly guard. The guard was part demon, though from what afterworld, Logan wasn’t sure. Mytheans, as supernatural individuals of the various species were called, could be dangerous. The university, which was more of an unofficial government organization dedicated to hiding the existence of Mytheans than it was a learning institution, hired all sorts of Mytheans. Roughly two minutes later, thudding footsteps sounded at the end of the hall. His cell was the third and last. It would buy him some extra time, since the other prisoners wouldn’t be alerted that something was wrong when their dinner didn’t appear.For old time’s sake, he’d love nothing more than to bust some of these assholes out just to fuck with the university. He’d never liked authority figures. But his end goal was more important than his whims.He shifted on his feet, and when the key finally scratched in the lock on his door, he moved forward. The heavy wooden door swung open and a gruff voice said, “Slop time, Ian MacKenzie.”The guard’s eyes widened when Logan’s fist came at him. They rolled back into his head not a second later. Logan snatched the tray before it clattered to the ground. The guard started to slump against the wall, but popped upright half a moment later.So that’s why this bastard was a guard. He was damn hard to knock out.Logan grabbed the guard by the collar, dragging him into the room. It looked like this might be a fight and he wanted privacy. The guard swung at him and Logan ducked, put the tray on the floor, then slipped behind him and reached up to grasp his head. It took a second to snap his neck. He turned it halfway around just to be sure he completed the job. Logan eased the massive body to the ground and thanked his buddy Ian for being such a model prisoner that there’d been only one guard. Logan quietly shut the door. In seconds, he had the guard’s hands bound behind his back and a makeshift gag over his mouth. Though he’d broken the guard’s neck, it certainly wouldn’t kill a Mythean. And whatever type this one was, his recovery period was ridiculously quick. He really should have been passed out for hours from Logan’s first punch.The last strip of bed sheet went around the guard’s ankles and Logan figured he had a solid ten minutes to make it off campus. Maybe even fifteen, if he got lucky.He’d need only five. Quickly, he laid a hand on the guard’s burly shoulder and envisioned himself shedding his own face and form and adopting the guard’s. When the knuckles of his hand widened and bristly hairs sprouted from the backs, his face had transformed as well. He magically adopted the guard’s uniform.Without a backward glance at the miserable four walls that had been his home for the last three months, he walked out the door and down the hall. He remembered it from his time sneaking in to free Ian, so it wasn’t hard to act like he knew where he was going.The hall was empty and silent but for the humming of the fluorescent lights above. They were out of place amongst the otherwise ancient architectural features, primarily stone for the walls and wood for the floor. The huge door at the end of the hall beckoned. Freedom.When he reached it, he placed his palm against the metal. Magic zinged up his arm as the lock registered the guard’s palm. It would have been a hell of a lot harder to break out had he not been a shapeshifter. Only the handprint of the guard, willingly given, would open the door.He grinned as he pushed the door open and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the Praesidium, the university department that dealt with security and protecting those individuals important to humanity. Basically, a bunch of heads-up-their-asses, full-of-themselves morons who thought they were the world’s police. Any species of Mythean could work for the university, but he’d never met one he liked.When he reached the door at the top of the stairs, Logan straightened his shoulders and scowled, trying for an expression as stupid as the guard’s. If he was going to meet anyone on his way out of the building, it would be here, in the halls of the Praesidium. And whoever he met wouldn’t be bad in a fight, given that only warriors worked for the Praesidium. Still, they’d be no match for him. He wiped what he knew must be a cocky grin off his face and relaxed his features into bovine boredom, then pushed out into the rich, wood-paneled hallway. A shock of familiar energy hit him in the chest. He stiffened.Sigyn. She was close. His chest ached, his soul seeming to pull away from his body in search of her. He hadn’t felt her presence in centuries, not since he’d left Norway. The enchanted shields on the prison must have blocked out the magic that filled the university buildings above, including hers.He’d known she worked for the university and he’d intended to seek her out once he’d destroyed the labyrinth, but he hadn’t expected to ever be so close to her that he felt her. She had to be in this very building.Ironic that the two things he wanted most in this world—Sigyn and access to the labyrinth so that he could destroy it—could be found in the same place. He slammed a fist against his chest, trying to quiet the pulling of his soul. He was in control of himself, damn it, and he had a job to do before he could seek out Sigyn.But seek her out he would. Once he’d destroyed the labyrinth and ensured his own safety—and hers—he would come for her. He’d been waiting.With a shake of his head to banish thoughts of the woman he still wanted, he turned right and strode down the hall to the enormous atrium at the entrance of the building. He held his breath as he skirted by an open door, but no one called out to him. The paintings on the wall seemed to frown pityingly at him as he walked by. With memories of Sigyn driving through his brain, he probably deserved it. He should be focusing on the labyrinth, not her.Escape loomed ahead, the wide open space of the atrium calling him to freedom. The great double doors lay just beyond. But every step he took carried him farther away from Sigyn. Her pull was so strong, she had to be in this building. But he had to keep going. He focused on what was at stake—eternal imprisonment, not just in the labyrinth, but within his own lost mind, once the River Lethe stole his memory. And he had to keep going for her. She was a demigod and would suffer the same terrible fate if he failed to destroy the prison. The thought spurred him forward. He pushed out through the great double doors into the cool night beyond.He sucked in the air and grinned. The idiots at the university couldn’t keep a god chained. But then, that’s why they were building the super prison. Regular Mytheans might not be able to chain the gods—but the gods could chain themselves. If they lost their memories, they’d lose the ability to fight their way free. It was an excellent plan. Evil, but excellent.The cobblestone courtyard and parking lot spread out in front of him, surrounded on all sides by enormous stone buildings. Old fashioned street lamps shone yellow lights on their ornately carved facades and ivy crawled up their sides. The courtyard was empty save for an individual sliding into a car.Sigyn?No. He wanted to see her so he was imagining her. He forced his mind away. He would come back for her once this was all over, as he’d planned. She was his end goal. He just had to clear the way to get to her, which meant escaping so he could find a way to destroy the prison to save both their lives. To do that, he needed to find privacy to transform. Ever since his aetherwalking had been bound by the other Norse gods, he’d relied upon his ability to shapeshift into the form of a falcon for transportation. He sorely missed the ability to travel instantly through the aether—that ephemeral substance connecting the earth and the afterworlds. It was far easier to envision a place and appear than it was to fly there, but he had no choice.The courtyard was too well lit, so he trotted down the stairs and jogged around the side of the building. By his calculation, he only had a few minutes to spare until the other prison guards noticed their dimwitted colleague was missing.He slid into the shadows at the edge of the stone wall of the building. It was dark enough to hide the green light of magic that swirled around him when he transformed and no other buildings looked directly out at him. It was perfect. He glanced right to confirm the coast was clear and caught sight of a scene in the window next to him. A woman danced within a large, well-lit wooden room. A wall of mirrors reflected her form.His heart pounded, beating itself senseless against his ribs.Sigyn. She spun about the room, a blue cloak waving behind her as her lithe form leapt and lunged and dodged. Golden hair trailed behind her and it was only once she spun toward him that he noticed the long wooden staff in her hands. Pale wood and elegant, she spun it about her form almost faster than the eye could see. Her cloak flickered. It wasn’t real, just an illusion.She wasn’t dancing. She was training. Her motions weren’t those of a ballerina, but those of a warrior. He’d never seen her like this, but he’d heard of her. The woman he’d cared for eight hundred years ago had been far quieter than the shining warrior goddess within the room. She’d been strong—capable of protecting herself—but nothing like the woman on the other side of the glass.This woman was all power and grace, strength and motion. She took his breath away. Fire flashed in her green eyes as if she saw her foe while she practiced her motions. She moved so fast, a mortal would never be able to see her. It was magic. Quite literally. Her talents had grown over the years.His head buzzed as he watched her and he was helpless to draw away. After so many years, here he stood, actually near her. He’d only seen her a few times for a few breathless moments after he’d driven her away all those years ago. He hadn’t been able to help himself, as he couldn’t now.He’d made sure she never saw him, though it had torn at something in his chest to maintain his distance. It was the only way to stay away from her, though. If he spoke to her, he’d be unable to leave her. The last time he’d seen her had been over five hundred years ago.He’d forgotten so many things over his life, so many faces and names and places, but he’d never forgotten her. Not the curve of her slender arms, the length of her legs, or the shine of her hair. She was beautiful—tall and strong and everything the Norse gods were supposed to be, though she’d been a demigod when they’d both left Asgard, home of the Norse pantheon.He was supposed to wait until he’d destroyed the labyrinth to come for her because she was a distraction. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she continued to leap around the room, the apparition of the blue cloak swirling around her marking her as a Vala, a student of the magical teachings of the goddess Freya. A cry sounded in the night. Shouts followed.Shit. He’d fucking forgotten he was on the run. He dragged his eyes from Sigyn, his heart clutching as she left his vision, and focused all his energy on envisioning the falcon form he would take. If he could just make it to the air, he could get—A shot rang out, a harsh blast echoing through the quiet night. Pain tore through his gut.What the fuck? They’d used fucking guns? Fucking mortals used fucking guns.Agony streaked from his stomach through his extremities. Another shot rang out, and this time pain bloomed in his shoulder. Guards charged toward him through the shadows, only a few dozen feet away.He cursed internally at the idea he’d have to transform in front of them, and thereby possibly give away his true identity, but there was nothing for it. If they caught him when he was this injured, he wouldn’t even be able to hold the false form he normally went by. They’d know he was a god and imprison him accordingly. In the labyrinth. He shuddered.Logan gritted his teeth. He tried to ignore the pain bombarding him long enough to force the magic through his veins, transforming his muscle and bone to feather and flight.It was sluggish, but the transformation worked amidst the swirls of green magic he’d never learned how to diminish. Soon he felt the wind under his wings and he climbed into the air, a fraction less graceful and effortless than normal. Pain ripped through him with every stroke of his wings and he faltered on the breeze. The ground was only a hundred feet below him, not nearly far enough to get out of the range of bullets. He pushed himself higher, nearly blind from the agony. He’d never make it off the campus like this. There was no way he had more than a couple hundred yards left in him, and the guards were right behind him.







About the Author:
Linsey Hall is the author of the Mythean Arcana, a sexy paranormal romance series. Before becoming a romance novelist, Linsey was an underwater archaeologist who studied shipwrecks in all kinds of water, from the tropics to muddy rivers (and she has a distinct preference for one over the other). Her books draw upon her love of history, travel, and the paranormal elements that she can't help but include.
Several of her books may or may not feature her cats.
www.linseyhall.com
https://twitter.com/HiLinseyHall
https://www.facebook.com/LinseyHallAuthor
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8588556.Linsey_Hall
http://www.pinterest.com/HiLinseyHall/


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Interview and Giveaway with Pamela Cash

What inspired you to become an author?
I have always been a supernatural geek but I found that diversity was lacking in the stories that were published.  The Chausiku story has been in my head for years so I decided to put the saga on paper.
Do you have a specific writing style?
Not really.  I actually have to switch my writing style from day to night.  I’m a transactional lawyer so I draft legal documents all day.  It took me a while to learn that the writing style of a novel is completely different from legal writing.  I remember one reviewer on Book One said that I included too many minute details such as spelling out Department of Motor Vehicles instead of DMV.  In legal writing a lawyer would never use an acronym before spelling it out then putting the acronym in parenthesis.  This is necessary in a novel.
Do you write in different genres?
Not yet.
How did you come up with the title for your latest book?
I’ve always loved the African name, Chausiku.  The rest of the title just fit for the third book in the series.
Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s complete?
I wait until after it’s complete.
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
Yes.  There are many different races, nationalities and cultures but they all have good people, bad people, confused people and people that are in the middle.  The six secret clans in the series are from Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, South America and North America but each clan has its good side and its bad side.  No clan is totally one or the other.
What books/authors have influenced your life?
Honestly, I haven’t been influenced by books.  The people in my life have influenced me the most, especially my mother.
What book are you reading now?
I finally caved in and started reading Fifty Shades.
What is your current “work in progress” or upcoming projects?
Chausiku Book Four!
Who designed the cover of your latest book?

Christine Cartwright.





ChausikuThe Blood of the ClansBook ThreePamela E. Cash
Genre: Science Fiction, Teens and Young Adults
Date of Publication: January 10, 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9886164-4-8ASIN: B00S39GIFQ
Number of pages:  273Word Count: 67,000
Cover Artist: Christine Cartwright
Book Description:
The Amaru clan has attacked the Qiao clan. The Sakombi clan has a traitor in its midst and John is torn between his mother's clan and his father's clan.
Is it all about Chausiku or is there a new threat? One that she may not see coming.

Available at   
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Excerpt:
Chassie punched in the code on the keypad lock, pushed the gate open and walked through it.  John closed the gate then turned around and smacked into her.  She had abruptly halted.“What’s wrong?” he said leaning forward so that he could whisper into her ear.  His body intuitively tensed for an attack and he engaged his abilities to fight.“Someone is watching us,” she whispered automatically engaging her own powers.  “I can feel it.”He turned around, opened the gate and ran out to the sidewalk with her close on his heels.  “Where is he?” he said peering up and down the street.  He didn’t see anyone in the darkness.“There!” she exclaimed pointing to the trees on her right.Suddenly a man walked from behind a tree and stared directly at them.  The shadow from the tree continued to obscure his body so that they couldn’t see his face.Chassie gasped putting her hand to her throat.  She was startled by his sudden appearance even though she had instinctively known that someone was watching her.  Her feet froze in place for a second and the man took off running down the street.“Hey!” John shouted running after the man.  “Stop!  Come back here!”The man already had a good head start and as he approached the end of the block, he turned his head to look at them over his shoulder then disappeared around the corner.  John was a half block behind the man but was gaining ground.  He had just reached the corner and turned when he suddenly felt nauseous.“Ugh!” he said doubling over and clutching at his stomach.  He slowed to a jog then stopped and put his hands on his knees.  The nausea became so intense that he could no longer stand so he sank to his knees and put his hands on the ground for balance.“John, what is it?  What’s wrong?” shouted Chassie catching up to him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.  Her eyes darted down the street and she could see that the man was quickly fading from sight but she didn’t care.  She tried to help John stand but he couldn’t move.“I feel so sick,” he said.  “Ugh!  I think I have to throw up.”  He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly hoping that it would help the nausea subside.  He hung his head down and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.  Chassie dropped to her knees beside him, reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue.“You’re burning up!” she said wiping his forehead.  “I don’t understand how you got so sick so fast.  We need to get you to the house so that you can lie down.”“No, wait,” he said tilting his head to the side to look at her and taking a few more deep breaths.  “I think the nausea is going away.”“Do you think that you can stand?”He nodded and planted one foot on the ground and paused a moment.  She reached out her hand to help him up but his eyes met hers as one corner of his mouth turned up into a sheepish smile.  He was slightly embarrassed that he had become so weak.  He stood straight up without her help and took the tissue out of her other hand.  He wiped the back of his neck and said, “Yeah, I’m fine now...that was strange.”Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him skeptically.  She put the palm of her hand on his forehead.“That was very strange,” she said.  “Your head feels cool again too.”He grabbed her wrist to remove her hand from his head and said, “Come on, let see if we can still catch that guy.”“Wait, John,” she said as he took a couple of steps down the street dragging her behind him.  He turned around looking frustrated.“Chaz, he’s getting away.”“He’s already gone, let it go…we’ll never catch up to him.”  She raised her eyebrows as a thought suddenly occurred to her.  “Although…you’re a Gale.  Why didn’t you engage that ability?”His eyes widened in surprise.  It hadn’t occurred to him either.  He had completely forgotten his other ability.  “I—I don’t know…I guess I haven’t mastered controlling two abilities yet.”  He frowned and dropped her wrist.  Then he crouched down low in a runner’s stance, concentrated and said, “Stay here.  I’m going to see if I can find him.”She grabbed his arm before he took off.  “Let it go, John.  You don’t know where to start looking.”He hesitated, not quite ready to give up the chase.  The he stood up and peered down the street in the direction the man had run.  He saw nothing but houses and trees.“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said shrugging his shoulders.  “He’s long gone by now.  Did you get a good look at the guy?  Did you recognize him?”“I didn’t recognize him but I did get a good look at him.  He was tall...had black hair that came down to his shoulders...”  She paused unable to describe the man further.“Is that all you can remember?” he said sarcastically.  “That’s not much help.”“You know I’m not great at giving detailed descriptions,” she snapped putting her hands on her hips and frowning.  She didn’t appreciate his attitude!  “But I would know his face if I saw it again.”“I’m sorry,” he said sliding his arm around her shoulders.  “I’m just pissed that the guy got away.”Her face softened at his touch.  She knew that he didn’t mean for her to take it personally. “I know,” she said with a small smile, slipping her arm around his waist.  “Don’t worry...I’ll know when he comes back.  I’ll feel him.”She gave him a hug then turned away and headed back to her house.  “Come on, let’s go inside.  I need to tell my grandmother about this.”  He didn’t immediately follow her.  He was still contemplating going after the man.  She looked over her shoulder at him as she walked and continued, “Do you need help walking?  I can float you into the house using my telekinesis–”“No!  Really…I’m fine now,” he said shaking his head sharply.  He still didn’t like her moving him around like a rag doll.  He jogged a few steps to catch up with her and said, “Let’s go.”When they reached the gate, Chassie entered the code again then John pushed it open and held it for her to walk through.  As she passed him, he tilted his head to look around her shoulder and took one more futile glance down the street...even though he knew that the man would be nowhere in sight.“John...” said Chassie without turning to look at him.He shrugged and followed her to the house.




About the Author:
Pamela E. Cash lives in Chicago with her family.  Her daughter inspired her to write the Chausiku Series.
http://chausikuseries.blogspot.com
https://www.facebook.com/chausikuseries
https://twitter.com/chausikuseries
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Guest Blog The Vampires of Dirty Magick: New Orleans by Scott Roche

The Vampires of Dirty Magick: New Orleansby Scott Roche
I’ve been a fan of the horror genre since I was eight years old. I remember watching Bela Lugosi and Lon Chaney Jr. projected on the wall of my bedroom from my brother’s 8mm projector. My favorite of the predators that crawled across my wall and silver screens of all sizes is the vampire. I’m fascinated most by the depth of lore about them and the wealth of cultures where you can find them in. They come in all shapes and sizes, the single common factor being the trade of others’ life force in exchange for eternal existence. The appeal of that trade is what makes them truly horrific. We’re all more than a little selfish at our core. The willingness to lose a little of our humanity and receive that dark gift resonates with a lot of people.
Fast forward to today’s horror offerings. The things that have been done to my beloved blood suckers make my flesh crawl. The horror is gone and in return we have some milquetoast monster who weeps over their new existence. Rather than relishing their power, they immerse themselves in the affairs of mere humans. I suppose that’s the danger of a trope that’s as old as this one. In an effort to find new things to do with them, an author can lose sight of their origins and what makes them the creature both admired and feared by many fans.
For my own writing, I decided to use vampires the same way I’d use a potent spice. Take my story in Dirty Magick: New Orleans, for example. The protagonist, Willy Evans, is a modestly powered mage in a modern version of the city. In this world, magic is on the wane, but it still exists, and creatures like vampires, faerie, and werewolves are a real danger. The challenge I faced in wanting to use a vampire as the Big Bad in the story was that Willy wouldn’t stand a chance against one. Add to that fact that the vampire in question, Anton Krev, is also an ancient and very powerful sorcerer, and Willy’s odds get even worse.
The only advantage Willy has is that the vampire he needs to defeat is already in the ground at the beginning of the story. He just has to stop the ancient blood sucker from being revived. The true antagonists in this story are the people working to bring Krev back from his long sleep. Given that, how can I call this a vampire story? The fear that the characters in the know face is that of the vampire and its minions. The long history of vampires using political, financial, and other indirect means to make their will come to pass is something I leaned on here. After all, even if Krev was walking the face of the Earth, he would still need ghouls and humans to get the job done in the day time.
For “Stigmata”, Anton Krev is the ghost pepper that gives this whole story the zing it needs. His power is so great that even burned, crushed to powder, and mixed with concrete for a hundred years, he can make his will come to pass. It’s my belief that zombies, mummies, and werewolves can be used likewise. Some of the best stories in the horror genre of the past ten years that I’ve read use these creatures almost completely off screen. Then, one day, perhaps they can take center stage when they’ve truly become the larger than life figures that they should be.



Dirty Magick: New OrleansDirty Magick AnthologyBook TwoEditor Charlie Brown
Genre: urban fantasy/crime hybrid
Publisher: Lucky Mojo Press
Date of Publication: 5/8/2015
ISBN: 978-0-9911960-3-6
Number of pages: 309Word Count: 85,000
Cover Artist: Trent Oubre
Book Description:
"Dirty Magick: New Orleans" continues the urban fantasy anthology series exploring the crossroads between magic and crime. Set in "The City That Care Forgot," this book covers back alleys of the French Quarter, the hidden corridors of Storyville, the weird voodoo in the backyards of Treme and whatever those old Victorians are hiding. Featuring such established authors as Rhonda Eudaly, Terry Mixon and Scott Roche, as well as the continuing editorial hand of Charlie Brown, this book sweeps away the swampy myths for some hardboiled partying.

Amazon Kindle     Amazon Paperback


Excerpt from the Introduction: Hiding In Myth’s Shadows: New Orleans’s Complicated Relationship With Truth
On a moonlit night in late fall, the fog lowers onto Jackson Square, clinging to the street lamps and bathing the ancient cobblestones with a soft ambience. These moments show how magical New Orleans can be, how it is a world separate from the known.On any night and in any part of town, those same streets can be bathed in revolving red and blue glares, police creating a barricade to investigate violent crime, maybe multiple-victim murders of wasted youth.The sad truth about New Orleans is everything that makes it great simultaneously makes it awful. The laissez-faire attitude can devolve into lawlessness, the celebratory drinks carried through the streets can flip into fistfights and the culture’s uniqueness can squeeze itself into parochial arguments about who and what is authentic.But one fact remains. New Orleans is about the show. Bourbon Street’s constant carnival draws visitors eager to drop cash on illicit pleasures. Fancy restaurants offer service so perfect that it’s impossible to tell when that water glass refilled. Few weekends go by without some sort of parade.And yet, we keep many secrets. We’re free with the house wine, but reserve the good stuff for ourselves. The best meal may not be served by the black-coat-white-shirt set, but out of an old woman’s kitchen deep in back of town. And this is where the magick happens.


About the Author, Editor and Publisher:
Charlie Brown is a writer and filmmaker from New Orleans. He currently lives in Los Angeles, where he recently received his Masters in Professional Writing from the University of Southern California and also runs Lucky Mojo Press and Mojotooth Productions.  He has made two feature films: “Angels Die Slowly” and “Never A Dull Moment: 20 Years of the Rebirth Brass Band.” His fiction has appeared in Conium Review, Oddville Press, Writing Disorder, Jersey Devil Press, The Menacing Hedge, Aethlon, and what?? Magazine, plus the anthology "Dimensional Abscesses."
http://www.charliebrownwriter.com
http://www.luckymojopress.com
All The Pretty Little HorsesMichael Ashleigh FinnExcerpt All the Pretty Little Horses:
    It was always about the music.    The first time I’d heard New Orleans’ special blend of jazz, I had been sent to the city by Winesap to look into the man behind a string of murders in 1919, in which the music played a pivotal role. Ever since, I’d made sure that if I came anywhere near the city in my travels, I’d swing by to get an earful before going on my way.  There’s a soul to the sliding bend and weave of the notes that’s just mesmerizing.     It was on one such visit that Baba Ghede found me.     I was tasting the local spiced rum and enjoying  a slow rendition of an old old southern lullaby being crooned out by a woman, accompanied by bass and sax.    Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,    Go to sleepy little baby      A slender man slid onto the seat next to me, skin dark as pitch. He was cocky in demeanor, and his grin nearly split his face in two. “Why, as I live and breathe, is that a Wormwood I see before me? What Christian name are you using these days?”         I looked sideways at the man.  “Josiah, same as the last time, Baba.” His family and I go back a ways. “You’re looking in good spirits.”    He spread his arms wide, barely missing someone juggling drinks away from the bar. “Have I no reason to be?”      I took a sip. “In my experience, meetings with you and yours are seldom accidental.”    He cocked his head and peered at me, some of the joyous demeanor dissipating.  “I remember you being more fun.”    He wanted something, and was trying on the charm of a salesman. It didn’t suit him. I took another sip.  “What can I do for you, Babaco?”    His hands made placating gestures. “Alright, alright. We do need your help. But not here, we need to discuss this in private.”    “I like this seat. Spill.”    He leaned forward and hissed in my ear. “The Loa are missing.”    I slipped off my stool and followed him into a back room.


About the Author:
Michael Ashleigh Finn writes his shorts from Houston, Texas.  The protagonist here can also be found getting into trouble in "Dirty Magick: Los Angeles", and is worming his way into nascent novel. In addition to his shorts, he's a consultant for the Hugo nominated  "Jim Butcher's The Dresden Files" comics from Dynamite Press and  the "Mana Punk" role-playing game from Hot Goblin.
http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Ashleigh-Finn/e/B00HXOIRI8
https://www.facebook.com/Michael.Ashleigh.Finn
https://twitter.com/MickeydotFinn
Last Dance In StoryvilleBrent Nichols 
ExcerptLast Dance In Storyville:
You couldn’t cross Basin Street without feeling like you were entering another world.George Frontenac stepped over a horse plop, paused to let a police wagon pass, then stepped quickly out of the way of a gleaming red Model A as it growled its way up the street. He didn’t entirely trust the newfangled machines. It was shaping up to be a noisy and boisterous new century.He reached the far sidewalk, and just like that, all respectability was left behind. He was in Storyville now, where vice was king and the law looked the other way.A flash of color caught his eye, and he turned to watch a young woman in an elegant blue dress making her way across the street. She wore boots with mud still clinging to them, the fancy dress at odds with the almost masculine swing of her hips. She moved like a farm girl, with a no-nonsense stride that said she meant to get where she was going and that was that.When she reached the sidewalk near him, however, that changed. She set down a pair of dainty Mary Janes, stepping out of her boots and into the shoes. When she picked up the boots, making them look somehow delicate in her slender hand, she was suddenly an elegant lady with a willowy, swaying walk. She headed down Basin Street away from him, holding the boots well away from her dress.George followed, since he was going the same way. When she turned on Villere, he worried she’d think he was following her. At the corner of Iberville, he watched her climb the steps to Dixon’s and wondered if it was fate. He shrugged and followed her inside.

About the Author:
Brent Nichols is a Canadian writer of science fiction, fantasy, and steampunk. His stories appear in a bunch of anthologies, such as Shanghai Steam, Blood and Water, Here Be Monsters, and Tesseracts. He’s also the author of several novels and novellas, including Lord of Fire, Bert the Barbarian, and Gears of a Mad God.
StigmataScott Roche
Excerpt Stigmata:
Willie “Sparkles” Evans looked up at the edifice of the Church of the Immaculate Conception. It had been a number of years, almost half of his twenty six, since he’d set foot in a church. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing approaching this one. He did need sanctuary, and he’d heard holy ground was always supposed to be a safe place, even for a drugged-out, hung over hedge wizard like himself. He started across the street without looking both ways, traffic non-existent in the muggy pre-dawn. There were a few lights on inside the house of God, showing off the beautiful stained glass.He reached into one of the pockets of his faded green Army surplus jacket and pulled out two blue tablets. He popped the pain killer in his mouth and pulled a battered silver flask from the same pocket. The cheap whisky wasn’t what he wanted to chase the ibuprofen with, but it was what he had. Cafe au lait would come after he knew he was safe. He grimaced and pushed on the door.“Locked? When did they start locking churches?” A sudden sense he was being watched made him want to be anywhere but outside. He touched the door’s lock with his finger. “Open, says me.” There was a click and he rushed through the now-unlocked door into the cool air of the nave beyond. He made sure the door was locked behind him before moving on.The lights overhead were turned almost all the way down. Candles flickered here and there. He grabbed a few brochures from a rack near the door, hoping they would tell him something useful. He scanned them, and they gave a brief history of the building, but that was all. He didn’t need the history lesson right now and tucked the brochures into his other jacket pocket, next to what was left of last night’s spliff.He took a moment to look around. The ceiling was crazy high, and the benches were gorgeous things made of wrought iron. He walked past the font of holy water and dipped his fingers in. He flicked the water into his own face, hoping it would wake him up a little. “Hello? Anyone in here?”His words echoed back to him. The place was deserted. “Maybe I can catch a few winks and go to the nearest crowded café.” He still wasn’t sure why he was being chased or who was chasing him. It could have been nothing more than his own personal demons, but drunk or straight he had never beenthis paranoid without reason.If he could just spot who it was, he’d call his sister, the detective. She’d ream him out in good fashion, but then she’d listen and maybe he could crash on her couch for a day or two while she looked into it. Until he could identify them, it wouldn’t do any good. She’d chalk it up to his penchant for telling stories and ask him when he was going to get his shit together.Halfway down the center aisle, he saw the crucifix. They were the creepiest fucking things. Christians complained about Islam being a religion of violence, but they seemed to forget that a man on a massive torture device hung in the middle of theirs. He looked closely at the artifact. He’d always thought Christ was supposed to be naked. This guy was wearing all black. He had the crown of thorns and blood-smeared face Willie always heard about, but the blood looked wet in the candlelight.When he smelled blood and shit, he realized this particular torture victim was flesh and bone and not a wooden representation. Now he had a reason to call Helen. He just had to find a phone.

About the Author:
Some creatures feed on blood and revel in the screams of their prey. Scott Roche craves only caffeine and the clacking of keys. He pays his bills doing the grunt work no one else wants to take, bringing dead electronics back to life and working arcane wonders with software. His true passion is hammering out words that become anything from tales that terrify to futuristic worlds of wonder. All that and turning three children into a private mercenary army make for a life filled with adventure. 
http://www.scottroche.com/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4181164.Scott_Roche
https://twitter.com/spiritualtramp
http://www.facebook.com/scott.roche.author
The Sacred Marriage of Etienne McCrayKirsten M. Corby

Excerpt The Sacred Marriage of Etienne McCray
The next couple of days were weird. He was off the next day, and called in sick the day after. He wouldn’t be able to avoid work forever, but maybe by the time he went back the bruises would go down.But that wasn’t the real issue. He kept seeing things. Hearing things. The city had changed. Or he had. Or he was going crazy. A building in the middle of Royal Street that had collapsed the year before was suddenly standing again – or an image of it was, the building as it had once been, clean new brick and fresh whitewash, instead of the crumbled ruin. He found if he tried hard enough he could still see the empty lot, the piles of neglected bricks no one had hauled away. But when his concentration lapsed, the ghost building was there again.Other buildings had upper stories they hadn’t had; alleys that never existed opened off streets he had walked his whole life. And there were … people in those streets. Creatures. A businessman with a briefcase, a bespoke suit, and arching white angel’s wings on his back, rustling softly as he hurried down Iberville Street. At the mouth of one of the alleys, a vévé, a voodoo sigil, was scrawled in white chalk – he saw something hovering about it, a shadowy cloud watching him with perfectly human brown eyes.Snakes crawled out of the sewers and climbed the wrought iron lampposts downtown, hissing softly, watching him as he passed, their eyes glowing like fire.On some crazed impulse, he went at midnight to the door in Exchange Alley, across from the precinct – the door that had never been there before – and banged on it for several minutes.The being that answered could only be called a loup-garou. Bipedal, towering over him, covered in a thick gray pelt, with the body of a man and the head of a wolf.Its red tongue lolled out between its sharp white teeth. “Been expecting you,” it growled.Steve’s nerve broke and he ran, ran all the way back to Frenchmen Street, his own neighborhood. He didn’t sleep that night, but spent it taking scalding hot showers and forcing himself to throw up, trying to purge this madness from his body.

About the Author:
Kirsten Corby is a writer and librarian who works for the public library and lives in the Irish Channel in New Orleans.
Website: www.atlantisfalling.net
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/kmcorby
Twitter: @kmcorby  

Glass DarklyPaul K. Ellis
ExcerptGlass Darkly:
The crimson spray arched gracefully up the wall and across ceiling from the window to the overhead light. Deep, dark, almost black at the curtains to a somewhat brighter shade of maroon near the bulbs told of a day or so drying time.If it weren’t for the copper tang in the air, you might think it was paint.Thank goodness for the cold, the coldest October in New Orleans in over one hundred fifty years. Kept the flies away. And, the maggots.The bedroom, well, the only room in the chef’s flop was tore up, and not like the bulls had given it a once over, either. That mess would’ve looked like it had a purpose. This mess looked like an alligator had been let loose. Except there was no bloody swath where the gator had dragged it’s snack back to the bayou. And no clawed and broken door. In fact, the only thing in the room that appeared truly broken was the vanity mirror set on the wall near the window. From the smears on the cracked glass, it looked like the crimson painter had been shoved into it with significant force. Where that body was now was anyone’s guess.And yeah, the neighbors had heard nothing.That I intuited, in large part because NOPD wasn’t camped out. Which was a good thing, since my peeper’s license had expired. And wasn’t any good in Louisiana. I toed through the debris on the floor, shaking my head. The things we do for family.I heard a metallic clinking while pushing a clump of wadded-up lingerie aside. I squatted on my heels and prodded at the clump with a pencil I’d pulled out of my jacket pocket. The wad fell apart, and I used the pencil to pick up a small, delicate chemise by its very thin straps. Far too small to fit on the chef’s arm, much less over his head. So, Justin had a honey on the side. I’m sure his wife would be thrilled. I shook it. The noise makers fell out, and disappeared into the folds of the clothing strewn on the floor. After pawing around a little more in the unmentionables, I came up with an earring shaped like a crescent moon, with a small, stylized star nestled in the inner curve. Yeah, I recognized it. I’d seen it’s mate earlier this morning.Hooked on one of the moon’s points was a tie bar. I unhooked it from the earring and gave it a gander. It was an expensive piece of frippery. ‘R.’ ‘D.’ Gaudy initials on sterling silver, and, at the time he bought it, worth more than the owner made in a month. So, his wife paid for it. Out of the food budget. ‘R.’ ‘D.’ Renny Dupre.I swore. I wasn’t being paid. Good thing; nothing was enough to put up with this.“Lose sumting, mister?”My skin crawled, not so much because someone snuck up on me, as my reaction to that old black magic. Contrary to Louie and Keely, it wasn’t love I was feeling. No, I had felt this over a year ago in Los Angeles, when I had my unfortunate run-in with the Nain Rouge. Okay, yeah, a little because he snuck up on me, too.I looked up from the floor to the jimmied and opened doorway. Leaning against the jam, sucking his teeth, was a short little guy. His white hair puffed around his dome like a delicate dandelion, but his hands were meat hooks. I noticed only because he was busy flexing them in time with his breathing.“Naw, I’m good,” I said, slipping the earring and tie bar into a pocket, and standing to look down on him.He wasn’t impressed. I’d had that effect a lot, lately.“You gonna invite old Aga Bab in, mister?” His voice was a little high, but not enough to make fun of.“Naw,” I said again, around a slow smile. “I’m good.”“So, I call the cops, then?” He waved his hand in a through-away motion.“Fine with me, sport.” No, it wasn’t fine with me. I was itching that “conjuring itch” all over and wanted the little prick gone. I had a feeling he wanted the cops here just about as badly as I did, so I played a hunch. “Maybe they can ask you where the chef is.”He grimaced. “You don’t know either? So, where’s the frail?”“What frail, sport?” I kept smiling. “You going to call the cops, or shall I?”He stopped leaning on the doorway. “I’ve never seen a body in such a powerful hurry to stay the night as a guest of the state,” he said.“You do give off that air,” I replied, then made a show of looking around the room. “I’ll call, then. I just saw the phone a minute ago.”It was his turn to smile. “On second thought, I got other girls...younger girls to look after.” He stepped backwards, out of the doorway. “You take care there, Jack. Right now, you’re protected, but everything changes and we’ll meet again.”He knew my name. Swell. My sinking feeling got worse when Shorty crammed a hat on his head, turned, and walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing back.“Oh, and Balor sends his regards.”That damn hat. That red Peter Pan styled hat.How did I get into this mess?

 About the Author:
Paul grew up in northern Alabama, in the crook of the Tennessee River, and moved to central Virginia in the late 70's. He has worked in food service, retail, radio and television, and in IT, most recently as a systems programmer. His work has appeared in Dirty Magick: Los Angeles, Dirty Magick: New Orleans, and Tales from the Archives. Paul's life is kept exciting by his wife and three daughters. Other than that, he's just this guy, you know?
http://paulkellis.com/
https://www.facebook.com/PaulKEllisAuthor
https://twitter.com/paulkellis
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9777289.Paul_K_Ellis
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00H4QWZRO
https://about.me/paulkellis
http://paulkellis.tumblr.com/
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Prompt SuccorHugh J. O'Donnell
ExcerptPrompt Succor :
The name is Terry O’Byrne. Folks that know me call me “Sharp.” I have a keen eye, keener than most people believe. I was born in Ireland back at the turn of the century. My Gran said my generation was going to be something special, that we had a fate touched by the fair folk. She was a bit soft, my old Gran, but she was right, in the end. I have what she would’ve called “the sight.” I can see things other people cannot, or maybe just willfully ignore.I see ghosts, naturally, but I’ve spotted many things as well: faeries, angels, demons, and a thousand others. When it first began, I thought I was going mad, and in a panic, I fled the country. In my haste, I took some favors and made some promises to some men I would have been smarter to avoid. I hoped that leaving would cure my condition, but the sight has only gotten stronger, and my new friends began making some serious demands.That is how I ended up in New Orleans, running a charming little curio shop in the Vieux Carre. I play to the tourists, ask no questions about where my merchandise comes from, and I take on other odd jobs as my sharp eyes earn me. My primary employer is William “Big Willie” MacCarthy, boss of the Irish mob and the man that supplies the water of life that keeps The Big Muddy flowing. I take other odd jobs and requests from time to time, but the oddest one of all was in January, 1925.It was the feast of the three kings, and New Orleans was celebrating in its own particular fashion. I was just about to close up for the night when a walking shadow stomped in. He wore an oilskin coat and a lowcrowned hat, but I could see his black shirt and white collar clearly enough.Although he came in by himself, he wasn’t exactly alone. He was followed by a line of ghosts, each one soft and indistinct, and as colorless as a film projection. That’s usually how it is with spirits. I get the image, but most of the time, it’s like a moving picture. No color, no sound. I’ve never been able to communicate with one. The priest’s ghosts were a line of little old ladies who clung weakly to him like mist.The regular ghosts in the shop made themselves scarce. I haven’t had many priests in the shop, but they seemed genuinely terrified of him. I wondered what they saw that I didn’t.“What can I do for you, Father?” I inquired as he stomped his way up to the counter. Even for a man of the cloth, he had a dour expression. The hair under his hat was white, but he didn’t look much older than thirty. But there was something about his eyes that I couldn’t put my finger on, just then.He stared straight into me and hurried to the front, as though trying to avoid seeing any of my wares. I knew there were rumors about my store. I started most of them myself. An air of mystery is good for business in New Orleans, and the more “legitimate” sales I made, the less on the hook I was to my benefactors.“You’re O’Byrne?”“So I’ve been called.”He reached into his coat pocket and thrust a letter at me the way one of Willie’s goons draws a roscoe. I took the slightly damp envelope and flipped it over. “This is the Archbishop’s seal,” I said.“Aye.” The priest continued to stare, so I pulled out my pocket knife and broke it. The letter was not very long, but it was from Archbishop Shaw himself. I read it twice, and looked the holy man in the eye.“He might have telephoned, or used the post. This is all rather cloak and dagger.”
He grimaced at me with a most unholy look on his face. “If it was up to me, we wouldn’t be calling on someone like you at all. But your services are required by the Church. I am told that you fought for the liberation of Catholic Ireland, but no one has ever seen you at Mass. If you were a parishioner, this all could be handled quietly, but as that is not the case, we’ve taken extraordinary methods.”
About the Author:
Hugh J. O'Donnell is a writer and podcaster.  He is the host and editor of The Way of the Buffalo Podcast, and his fiction has appeared in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Over My Dead Body! and others.  He lives in Western New York with his spouse, cats, and shelves of obsolete video game consoles.
Web/blog: www.hughjodonnell.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/hatchingphoenix
Knowledge Is PowerRhonda Eudaly
Excerpt Knowledge Is Power:
Light streamed through the hotel room windows, triggering a blinding headache. Janna blinked. Maybe not choosing the interior room was a mistake. She remembered wandering the French Quarter as the clubs opened up. The rest was a blur. The pounding increased in volume and insistency until she realized it wasn’t her head. Someone was knocking on her door.“One moment.” Janna stumbled out of bed and slipped on her robe. Maybe she’d ordered breakfast before falling asleep?Room service wasn’t on the other side of the door. Surly looking men in sports coats and badges stood behind a nervous-looking hotel manager.“Janna Allen?” the lead jacket asked.       “Yes?”“We need you to come with us,” he said.“Not until you identify yourself.” Janna took a solid stance. “You know better.”“NOPD. Detective Eli Medina. Please come with us, Ms. Allen.”“Why?”“The Arcanus Magus was stolen last night. We have questions.”Janna’s eyes widened. “Give me an hour to shower and dress–”“You’ll come with us now, Ms. Allen. We’ll use handcuffs if necessary.”Being on the suspect side of the interrogation table felt weird. Janna tried to breathe normally, but couldn’t stop her rising anxiety. The room didn’t help, with the bare cinderblock walls and steel furnishings. At least she’d been able to put on real clothes, if not shower. The door squealed on its hinges. Detective Medina stalked in and dropped a file folder down on the table.“You know I’m on your side, right?” she asked.“We’re looking into your background, Agent Allen. But that doesn’t mean you’re above suspicion. In fact, your skills with the Federal Special Investigations makes you uniquely qualified to pull off this theft.”“Why on Earth or Ether would I steal the Arcanus Magus? I know what that book can do.”

About the Author:
Rhonda Eudaly lives in Arlington, Texas where he's ventured into several industries and occupations for a wide variety of experience. She's married with dogs and a rapidly growing Minion© army. Her two passions are writing and music, which is evident in her increasing horde of writing instruments.Rhonda has a well-rounded publication history in fiction, non-fiction and script writing. Check out her website - www.RhondaEudaly.com - for her latest publications and downloads.
www.rhondaeudaly.com
https://www.facebook.com/reudaly
https://twitter.com/reudaly
Butler’s Last StandMichell Plested
Excerpt Butler’s Last Stand:
I entered the old building and climbed the stairs up to the roof access. I opened the creaking window and stepped out onto the slate-tiled roof. Looking down, I didn’t really blame Jean for not wanting to be there. The ground looked a long ways away.I patted the hidden Butler medal I kept tucked under my shirt. It was just about the only thing I had left tying me to parents who had died when I was too young. It was my lucky charm. I hoped it would keep me from doing something stupid like falling off the roof.The only saving grace if I did? Jean wouldn’t be able to give me a hard time about it.The roof was slick with moisture, making footing treacherous. I inched my way toward the mystery object.The closer I got, the fuzzier it seemed to be. I had to practically lean over top of it to get any idea what it was. When I saw it, there was no doubt though.It was a head. More precisely, the head of a black man. Some sick bastard had impaled it on a piece of metalwork protruding from the eaves. It still looked all fuzzy, even up close. I could only guess that was because it was dark and foggy.
I took a pair of gloves out of my breast pocket and pulled them on. Then I carefully reached down to retrieve the grisly piece of evidence. My hand went right through the thing like it wasn’t even there. I almost did a header off the roof.
About the Author:
Michell (Mike) Plested is an author, editor, blogger, closet superhero (not to mention sock herder and cat wrangler) and podcaster living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He is the host of several podcasts including the writing podcast, Get Published, (2009, 2011, 2013 and 2014 Parsec Finalist).
His debut novel, Mik Murdoch, Boy Superhero was shortlisted for the Prix Aurora Award for Best YA Novel and its sequel, Mik Murdoch: The Power Within was launched at When Words Collide 2014. He has stories and several books coming out this year (2015) including Scouts of the Apocalypse (June), and a collaborative Steampunk work, Jack Kane & the Statue of Liberty (June).
www.michellplested.com
@Mplested
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Michell-Plesteds-GalaxyBillies/406961900026
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4442953.Michell_Plested
http://www.wattpad.com/user/mplested
Blood DebtTerry Mixon
Excerpt Blood Debt: “I see. Your boss created this situation, but arguably, you caused the deaths of these people.”“That’s bull!” He turned toward Al, bringing his gun up.Ready for his move, Al twisted the gun from the man’s grasp and jabbed him with the pin he’d just cleaned. The man jumped back, swearing. Al smiled without humor. “There’s a lesson in this, Marie. I want you to pay close attention. Actions have consequences, even when you think you’ve done something for the best reasons. And someone always pays a price.”He focused his will into the man’s blood and cast the same kind of spell the girl had used to kill the men she’d held responsible for her mother’s death. It took every ounce of his skill and power to do so without using a ritual and pre-charged implements. It amazed him that Marie had killed with her will alone.The man screamed and clawed at his eyes. “No! Please! Mercy!”“I have no mercy for you. Have some justice instead.”The man spouted blood in every direction and collapsed into a twitching heap. Al wiped his face. Small droplets of blood covered him from head to toe. Marie hadn’t escaped the spatter either. It felt fitting.

About the Author:
Terry Mixon is a former non-commissioned officer that served in the United States Army 101st Airborne Division and also dedicated nearly two decades to providing direct computer support to the flight controllers in the Mission Control Center at the NASA Johnson Space Center supporting the Space Shuttle program, the International Space Station, and other spaceflight projects. He lives in Texas with his lovely wife and a pounce of cats.
http://terrymixon.com
https://www.facebook.com/TerryLMixon

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Blitz and Giveaway Enemy's Kiss by Kristi Jun

Enemy's KissKristi Jun
Genre: Regency Historical Romance
Date of Publication: May 12, 2015

ISBN: 13: 978-1511983536

ASIN: B00XLZ37NS
Number of pages: 270Word Count: 73,000
Cover Artist: Kim Killion
Book Trailer: No
Book Description:
She gave up her future for justice...
Emma Willoughby had an idyllic life until her parents were murdered and her world, as she knew it, came undone. She sacrificed everything and even accepted a marriage proposal from a man she thinks knows the identity of the killer.
Unfortunately, he is murdered before she’s able to discover the truth. Now the Crown claims a mission to Tibet will bring the answers she seeks. The trouble is, the man who has been assigned to protect her, a man she'd once deceived, is an arrogant spy who wants nothing to do with her.
He lived a lie to protect his family...
Michael Whitfield left home nearly a decade ago, but when his childhood friend is murdered and accused of high treason, he is determined to clear his name and his killer be brought to justice no matter the cost, even if it meant accompanying the woman who turned out to be nothing more than a heartless viper. But as their mission takes twisted turns and reveals a sinister plot that threatens both their lives and the lives of the innocent, his admiration for her grows and sparks between them once again ignite. But can he trust his heart to a woman whose history holds nothing but lies? 




Available at AmazonExcerpt:
Finding the strength, Emma pulled away from the door, walked up the stairs, and stepped into her room, biting back the hot emotions igniting again with new purpose. She had no room for tears, no room for—  A cold blade drew up to her neck and her breath snagged in her throat. Her hands gripped the culprit’s solid arm and her chin tilted up as the cold knife pressed on her neck.“Afraid?” A chilling yet familiar voice taunted.His musky male scent propelled peculiar tingles up and down her spine. He lowered his free hand and slid into her bodice. She gasped when his fingers touched the tip of her breasts, heart racing with anticipation. With one flick of his hand, he pulled out a pen knife she'd hidden between the mounds of her bosoms before departing home. Before she could react he released her with a gentle shove, leaving several feet between them.Their eyes met and her gaze swept the very tall length of him. She had forgotten how delicious he smelled. His stark blue eyes darkened and, for one single moment, she thought she caught a glimpse of lust brewing there.Lust? Wrong. He despises you. “Danger, Miss Willoughby, lurks everywhere.” Michael slid his knife back into the sheath tucked into his boot. “Apparently so,” she whispered. “I thought you were trained?” He tossed her knife on the settee. “I am.” Her eyes swept his broad frame, the loose cravat about his neck. “Really?” He walked around the room and tipped his head to look out the window, then back at her. “If that were the case, you would have had your knife about my neck. How many missions, exactly?”She unlocked her gaze from his and turned to the window. She felt him approach, closer. Closer still. Her heart quickened. She dared not move. "How many?" One. But she was not about to give him the satisfaction. “I do not need to use physical force to accomplish my task.” “Ah yes, the good old game of seduction. A skill you've quite mastered, I think. I know this first hand." If only he knew the truth, he wouldn't be so cruel. She felt him approach her from behind, his hand caressing the curve of her neck. Slowly snaking around, he pulled her to him, her back now against his firm chest. Heat flared inside her, wishing for the impossible.  "That may work well with a target, especially when the poor soul is already in love with the spy charged to take him out, don’t you think?” he said.She pulled away from him. "I did what I had to."“Listen well. You are an amateur at best and you will only end up rotting in the gutter if you persist.” He took several strides towards her, leaving barely a foot between them.  “So you have come here to teach me a lesson? Is that it? I can assure you that there is nothing you can say or do to deter me from my goal.” “No, I am not here to teach anyone a lesson. But I do need to know the extent of your capacity." “Now you know, so kindly get the bloody hell out of my house,” she warned. Walking over to the settee, she retrieved her knife and held it firmly in her hand.He didn’t bat an eye at her blasphemy. She refused to let this man intimidate her under his scrutiny. She tipped her chin up and looked squarely at him. “Tell Lord Tomkin you want out and I'll give you my word to deliver the message and find the killer.”Typical male, thinking he would be her knight to save the day. No, it was her responsibility to find justice for her family and to keep him on task. “I will do no such thing. I will have my satisfaction of looking him in the eye when he is caught.” His jaws twitched. “Then I suggest you prepare yourself because we will be entering a hostile territory in the middle of a bloody war. Gurkhas will not hesitate to slit your throat once they discover you.”             “Gurkhas?” She tried to sound impassive, but her tone gave it away.“Nepalese mercenaries,” he said. “Quite unforgiving where the English are concerned. Lord Hastings is fighting a bloody war that no English cares a damn about.” He paused for her reaction. “And the Chinese military, well….that’s another matter altogether.”She'd deal with them once she was there. "Thank you for the cautionary advice. I am well prepared for miscreants that cross my path." "I don't think you are," he said carefully. "And that can be very dangerous for us both."She glared at him. “Since you seem to have everything figured out, what is your plan?”“My plan,” he said with a mocking tone, “is to stay alive.”“Is that supposed to frighten—”“This isn't a game.”His gaze fixed on her lips and lingered, sending waves of heat through her body. She cursed herself for allowing this man to affect her. “I’m quite aware this isn't a game, Mr.Whitfield.” Her tone belied her show of confidence. No doubt he could see her quaking skin and shivering nerves. He looked deep into her eyes. "Emma," he said, his voice taking on a softer tone. "I need you to back away from this. I give you my word I'll find the killer."Their gazes locked and she saw he meant what he said. "I can't," she said softly, shaking her head. "I won't."He backed away from her, his features hardening once more. “Then I only have one thing to say to you.""And what would that be?" she said, curtly."Be prepared," he said, "for the hell you are about to enter."

 About the Author:
Kristi Jun resides in Southern California with an infinitely patient husband and a beautiful quirky son. If she isn't conjuring up another Happily Ever After, she can be found searching the web for all things English, watching reruns of Star Trek (new and old), Dr. Who, and Downton Abbey. She LOVES to hear from her readers!
www.KristiJun.com
www.twitter.com/kristijunauthor
www.facebook.com/kristijun
www.pinterestcom/kristijunauthor

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Release Day Blitz Amber Prelude by Kevin B. Henry

Amber PreludeAmber GiftsPrequelKevin B. Henry
Genre: Fantasy, Time Travel, Science Fiction, and History
Publisher: Burst/ Champagne Books
Date of Publication: June 01, 2015
Word Count: 20,000
Formats available: eBook, PDF
Cover Artist: Ellie Smith
Book Description:
Mitchell didn't really believe the story the Man told him, Just take a sip and speak a year. He whimsically chose a historic event to witness. Little did he know he would become part of that history. Faster than you can say Teithwyr Amser our man Mitchell is chasing a bona fide assassin not only across America but across time.
Amber Prelude will require Mitchell to travel from the America he knows to France and Africa. He will travel to decades and centuries he is unfamiliar with. Mitchell will chase authentic villains and make historic friends, all in an attempt to set history back the way he remembers.


Excerpt Chapter One
1963: New MexicoIt had started simply. I uncapped the vial, drank the liquid, and spoke the year I had chosen aloud. The room spun. I dissolved.I anticipated nothing happening. I began by sitting at the old wooden table feeling numb. My expectations extended to looking for shelter the following morning. Maybe I would move under a bridge for a short time; maybe I would do something much worse to myself.I’d experienced severely morbid thoughts for months. Moving often transformed me.  A nightmarish combination of a manic and depressed person was all I had been until the vial. It continued for months, and I expected it to continue forever. What I didn’t expect was a twisting feeling in my chest and lower abdomen. It wasn’t painful, just an unusual feeling. I didn’t expect the room to blur. I blinked several times, but it wasn’t my eyes; the room was blurry. Soon the room ceased to exist.I had not spent long hours considering the year I would move to. I flippantly selected 1963. It would give me almost ten years before my birth moment and I vanished from the universe forever. The Man was specific about not existing past my birth moment. It would give me a chance to see some of the most tumultuous years in America, civil rights marches, hippies, the moon landing. My choice of year would give me a chance to stand at Dealey Plaza and personally see if there was a second shooter. It was a shallow choice, but it was the best I could come up with.My first thought as the world congealed around me was that I had said something wrong. Had I said 1863? It was night. The stars above me were crisp and clear. Sagebrush surrounded me in all directions. Gone were the smells of the city. My senses absorbed a clean, fresh smell. This was how I remembered the world use to be. A scrub oak blended with the evening shadows just a few feet to my right. To my left was a light in the distance, a campfire. The flames created dancing shadows on the two trees surrounding the fire. Someone sat next to the fire, stirring the flames, sparks rising into the starry sky.I walked toward the fire. I didn’t see that I had any choice; every other direction was pitch-black. Halfway there he rose from his place at the fire and raised his left hand above his head.He sparkled. It wasn’t anything residual from the fire. His whole body twinkled and sparkled. It was disturbing.“About time, Mitchell,” he yelled. “I’ve been waiting here for damn near three days.” “Come on in. I’m sure you have questions, son.”I got over my initial anxiety of the twinkle man and sat on the far side of the fire. We had been sitting before the fire for fewer than five minutes. I was dazed, confused, and overwhelmed. Less than an hour ago, I was sitting in a dingy, two-bit hotel room.Now, here I was, in some large expanse of desert in the company of someone who looked like Ray Teal, that quintessential sheriff on so many TV westerns and movies. He wore standard blue jeans, a simple button-front dress shirt, and a light-gray jacket. This twinkle man had a slouch hat, not exactly cowboy, but not a fedora either. He was half a foot shorter than me, stockier, and a minimum of twenty-five-years older, if I had to guess his age. There was salt and pepper stubble covering his face. His voice was deeper than mine, but not so deep that I envied it.“Okay,” I began. “Where am I?”“New Mexico,” he answered without hesitation. “You’re about three miles east of Tucumcari.”I considered that answer. “When am I?”“It’s November, 1963.”“What’s the date, the day?” It concerned me I might miss my reason for picking this year.“It’s the sixth.” A wave of relief swept over me. I wasn’t too late.His answers were rapid-fire, no pauses or measurable moments that I would have considered creative thinking. He was either telling the truth or extremely well prepared for my random questions. I tried to think of the relevant questions I should ask. The standard ones, who, what, when, where, seemed a good place to start.“How did I get here?”“Well now, that’s an obvious answer to a poorly considered, ill-thought out question.” He shook his head. “You took a drink from that vial you have tucked away in your jacket pocket.”A sudden gust of wind caused me to wrap my windbreaker tighter around my body. Maybe it wasn’t the night air. I was a little hurt. It wasn’t an attempt at sounding stupid; just understand what had happened to me.“How did you know I was coming?” Maybe that question would seem less inept.“Now that’s complicated.” He answered this question more slowly. He was thinking more and not just responding. “My name is Gil, Gil Seward. I got a letter just a few days ago. It asked me to come here and see if you’d appear. The letter said to just wait here a while and see if you drank from the vial or not. If you did, I’m supposed to help you out a little. Get you started and send you on your way.”“Asked by whom? That guy who gave me the vial?”“Yeah” was his only response. I hate one-word answers.“Who was he? Why did he give me this vial?”“He was someone I owed a favor. I haven’t seen him for a long time. He isn’t someone you need to know. Forget him. I don’t know why he decided to give you his vial. He just did.”He paused for a while, stirring the fire with his stick, a small branch from one of the nearby trees.“One last question for now,” he said. “Make it a good one.”“Okay, Gil,” I said, using his name for the first time. “Why the hell do you sparkle? You look like some creation by Industrial Light, a special effect in a vampire or science fiction movie.”“Forgot all about that,” he laughed. “You sparkle too. You just can’t see it. You started as soon as you drank from the vial. All Amser will sparkle.”“What’s an Amser?”“Sorry, Mitchell, You’ve reached your limit on questions for now. It’s my turn to ask some.”I started to say something, but the look on his face made me stop. I hoped that ‘for now’ meant there would be more answers in the future.“What made you pick this year?”“It wasn’t a rational decision. Who would believe this would really work? I figured I’d see something special, something historic. Dallas and the Kennedy assassination was a significant event in my life. All the other conspiracy theories I remember while growing up could never surpass this one event. Standing on the grassy knoll and knowing beyond a doubt if there was or wasn’t a second shooter seemed as good an idea as any.”“With all of history to choose from, you wanted to watch somebody die?”“That wasn’t my motivation.” I said “I thought of it more as watching a documentary on TV.”“We’ll see what you think of your documentary as you watch it live. Did you have plans afterward?”“I don’t have many concrete plans. Just live out the next decade before I die.”“Why would you want to die?”“The Man said I couldn’t live past my birth moment. That was another reason I came here. That gives me several years to live before that time.”“He didn’t tell you?”“Tell me what?”“You have it all wrong, Mitchell. You can use that vial repeatedly. Just refill it. You can travel to any year, any time, as often as you want, as many times as you want. You’re not stuck in this year or decade forever.”I’m not sure my mouth actually fell open, but that is how I remember it.

About the Author:
From an early age, Kevin B. Henry was a voracious reader. His collection of science fiction, fantasy and mystery books bring tears of envy to the eyes of many small community libraries.
Kevin has worked as an educator, technology specialist and day laborer most of his adult life. During all that time he lived the life of a frustrated author. That it took 30 years for him to piece together the series, Amber Gifts is a testament that the best meals need slow cooking to bring out the flavor.
The Amber Gifts Series begins with Amber Gifts. The second story, which is really the first, is Amber Prelude, and is available now. The third story, Amber Legacy continues where Amber Gifts left off. It will be available in November 2015. All are published by the wonderful folks at the Champagne Book Group. A fourth story is in the process of being written.
Kevin is a natural story teller, so it’s logical that he lectures occasionally. Topics range from the implementation of cutting edge technology hardware to the creation, modification and use of e-books within education. He constantly pursues research to expand his range of possible topics. His most recent research revolved around the aerodynamic properties of reindeer. He’s also been known to include little known facts and trivia within his presentations. Did you know just 146 years ago today the Union Army marched into Atlanta. It took longer than anticipated. They were delayed by a traffic jam on I-75 and the toll booth on Ga. 400
He continues to live in the Mid-West without human or domesticated mammal companionship.
Blog/Wesbite: www.ambergifts.blogspot.com
Twitter:        @Kevin_Henry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/AmberGifts

A Review of Dark Alchemy by Laura Bickle

Dark Alchemy by Laura Bickle
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I absolutely loved this book- for so many reasons. The main reason being it was different, so wildly different than the usual urban fantasy. The characters were fresh, the mythology exciting, and the setting unusual. Plus it is a mix of urban fantasy, fantasy, magic, horror, adventure, plus a touch of mystery with a possible budding romance thrown in just to make it a little more interesting.

From the very first page I was hooked- Bickle introduces us to odd characters and an even odder setting- the crazy old western town of Temperance, Wyoming which seems to be one step away from being a ghost town. If it wasn't for Yellowstone National park, the Native reservation and the Alchemist who keeps the tweaking "meth" heads dazed and confused it probably would have disappeared into dust ages ago.

Petra is a geologist running from her past and hunting for her father who disappeared many years ago, Temperance was the last place he sent a postcard from.

The action starts right from the beginning- Petra sure has a way of finding trouble- or it finds her. It doesn't take long for her to settle in with an old truck, a couple guns, and a coyote sidekick that digs up a mystery gift for her.

That mystery gift, the calcified bodies, Alchemy, and Petra's hunt for her missing father are all tied together, but how?

It's an odd tale full of eerie twists and turns. Bickle does a wonderful job of creating a subtlety chilling and creepily dark story that keeps you wondering what will happen next.

That end...such mixed feelings.

I am thrilled to learn that book two is in the works because the dark and twisty ending left me aching for more.

View all my reviews