Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 413

Guest Blog and Giveaway with Catherine Stine

I write YA and NA novels and also teach college lit part time. When I was assigned to teach Christopher Marlow's Doctor Faustus, I alternately balked and thrilled at the challenge. The story is about a brilliant college professor who, after earning what is now equivalent to a PhD, is bored and asks the medieval version of "Is this all there is?" He has noble ideas: he wants to enrich public education, find cures for dreadful diseases—even raise the dead. Hey, rewind ... you need superpowers for that, right?!
You sure do. Thus, he falls into temptation when he calls up Mephistopheles to grant him these superhuman powers. Dr. Faustus thinks he has nothing to worry about. He doesn't believe in the devil, or hell. He's a modern man of science. Damnation, piffle! He makes a vow with the devil's messenger and signs it in blood.
But Faustus soon learns that power corrupts, and there's no taking back his damnable vow. Hey, Mephistopheles warned him. What devil does that? A modern, enlightened devil, that's who! At any rate, the good, or I should say bad doctor gets his comeuppance.
I was worried about teaching this book because I don't believe in a literal heaven or horned devil in hell. I just couldn't find a way in. Then, I ran into a guy who teaches Doctor Faustus at Boston University—one of those freaky coincidences that seem ordained by higher spirits—haha. And this cool, witty man totally turned my head around. He chuckled heartily at my whining and said one doesn't have to be religious to get into Faust. That it's really about our shadow sides—how we handle temptation and dark urges when no one’s watching. It's also about the irony that what people are secretly attracted to can often be the same things they publicly condemn! It’s about our deep terrors as well, the ones involving the so-called sins of the day: promiscuous sex, arrogance, urges to follow our “bad angels” into nefarious activities. I’ve grown to love this novel so much I wrote a modern twist on it, for the Internet generation called Dorianna. Here are some of the many twists over time, inspired by the original Faust myths:
In the time of the medieval Faust myths it was a literal fear of the devil
In Goethe's version, one could actually be redeemed of dreadful sin through love
In Marlow's time the sin was intelligence and arrogance over God.
In Oscar Wilde's day the sin was pride of beauty and sexual promiscuity.
In Will Self's day (Dorian, 2002) it was the terror of contracting AIDS
In Dorianna's day (2014/15) it's our obsession with Likes and Internet followers


If you were to do a fresh twist on a classic tale, what might it be and why?


DoriannaCatherine Stine
Genre: YA paranormal/horror
Publisher: Evernight Teen
Date of Publication: October 24, 2014
Word Count: 91K
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Book Description:
Internet followers, beauty, power. It all sounded good.
Until it transformed into a terrifying reality Dorianna couldn’t stop
Dorianna is a dark twist for the Internet generation on A Picture of Dorian Gray.
When her father is jailed, her mother ships lonely, plain Dorianna to her aunt’s. There, Dorianna yearns to build a new identity, but the popular Lacey bullies her—mostly for getting attention from her ex, Ander.
Ander takes Dorianna to Coney Island where Wilson, a videographer, creates a stunning compilation of her. She dreams of being an online sensation, as she’s never even had a birthday party, and vows she’d give anything to go viral. Wilson claims he’s the Prince of Darkness and warns her the pledge has downsides.
Dorianna thinks he’s joking. She has no idea of how dire the consequences might be.




About the Author:
Catherine Stine’s novels span the range from science fiction to paranormal to contemporary. Her futuristic thriller, Fireseed One won finalist spots in YA and Sci-Fi in the 2013 USA News International Book Awards and an Indie Reader Approved notable seal. Its companion novel, Ruby’s Fire was a finalist in the 2014 Next Generation Indie Awards. Her paranormal YA, Dorianna launches with Evernight Teen in October. She also writes new adult fiction as Kitsy Clare. Her new adult Art of Love series includes Model Position and Private Internship. She loves all things spooky, exotic and edgy, including travel to unusual locations. She also loves hearing from readers.
Website: http://catherinestine.com
Blog: http://catherinestine.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Catherine-Stine-author/160174947415366
Twitter: https://twitter.com/crossoverwriter
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/kitsy84557/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1018139.Catherine_Stine
Subscribe to her newsletter http://goo.gl/JRGtJh


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Interview His Cemetery Doll by Brantwijn Serrah

Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre? 
I've always been a bit of a "dark fantasy" sort of person. I liked Grimm's fairy tales and Disney movies with the evil sorcerers and black magic, like Maleficent, or big, mysterious legends like the Beast and his castle. Otherworldly creatures always fascinated me, too: I remember a friend telling me about "changelyngs" once, when I was very little, and I adored the whole concept.
What inspired you to write this book? 
Many different inspirations came together to create His Cemetery Doll. The characters are ones my husband and I crafted together when we were very young, and they evolved (with us) to become something more complex and dynamic over time. The music of Repo! The Genetic Opera, and later Phantom of the Opera and Sweeney Todd, all played a part in shaping the plot in my mind. Inspiration also came from friends and our role-playing group, who were the first to investigate the mystery of Broken Doll and bring the dark past of the graveyard to light.
Do you have a special formula for creating characters' names? Do you try to match a name with a certain meaning to attributes of the character or do you search for names popular in certain time periods or regions? 
I do a little bit of all these things. It's important the character's name match their time period and region, first of all, to maintain good foundation. If you're writing a fantasy novel or one taking place in a fictional realm, this is a bit easier, but still you must be mindful of the "sound" of it all. I definitely search for the meanings behind names: "Conall", for instance, has a meaning pertaining to soldiers and warriors. The character of Conall is best signified in my mind by his "warrior" personality...and so I named him for it. I absolutely love names, because they always tell you a little bit more than you think.
Was one of your characters more challenging to write than another? 
Broken Doll did turn out somewhat difficult. In her case, I think it pertained to the fact she doesn't speak for herself, but must communicate through other means. This proved a challenge, but a good kind of challenge; I liked being stretched to show her intentions and emotions more through body language and reaction than anything else. Fred, the priest, also became very difficult to write at sometimes, but not so bad.
Is there a character that you enjoyed writing more than any of the others? Again, Broken Doll comes to mind, and perhaps for the very reasons I also listed her as the most difficult. I loved discovering how she communicated.  I had a very easy time with all three main characters, though: Conall, Shyla and Broken. They spoke very easily to me, and had a lot to say. Their characters were very vibrant in my mind.
Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a character sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write? 
Characters "introduce" themselves to me as I go, honestly. I get a little bit of a concept in mind – for instance, I started out knowing my story would follow the adventures of the gravekeeper, and that he'd have a daughter – but their personalities come together through events more than anything. I do have a form, called "99 Character Questions", which I usually use when its time to create a new role-play character, but occasionally I go to it to help shape something in the book, if I feel the need.
What is your favorite scene from the book? Could you share a little bit of it, without spoilers of course?
I'm a fan of the first romantic scene, where Broken Doll comes to Conall in his home. The strangeness of her, in his house, unexpectedly, and the eerie familiarity she shows as she comes right to him... I think there's an aspect of the Doll's character brought out by this scene, a vulnerability behind the paranormal, and I like the way it leads them into the first beginnings of their affair.
Did you find anything really interesting while researching this or another book? 
I rather enjoyed learning about the different divisions of the European forces during World War II, especially the Special Air Services, which is the division Conall served with.

What is the most interesting thing you have physically done for book related research purposes? 
Before I began publishing with Breathless Press, I worked on a supernatural western series, something I lovingly called "Cowboys and Indians meets Witches and Warlocks". The magic in this world could be tied to Norse runes and rune-casting. I developed a habit where at any point a character was consulting the runes for divination, I'd pull out my own rune-stones or rune-cards and do the divination as the character did. I'd then input the reading I received, exactly as it fell for me, for the character to have to deal with. I really liked the way that shaped the story. It took me on some wild turns, but I think it shaped the details well!
Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? How do you deal with it? 
I do suffer from writer's block, quite often. My go-to solution is to take my dog for a long walk, and listen to music or an audiobook, to refresh my brain.
Do you write in different genres? 
Supernatural/Paranormal are my favorite, but I do like to and want to  switch it up from time to time. My second novel was fantasy, of course, and my next will be as well. I'm hoping to also put out some steampunk down the line.
Do you find it difficult to write in multiple genres? 
I have more trouble with some genres than others, but writing in multiple genres, in general, doesn't bother me much.
Other than writing, what are some of your interests, hobbies or passions in 
life?  I'm an artist, both drawing and painting, and working in photoshop with stock art of my personal sketches. Art is great for helping me to relax. I'm also a tabletop role-player.
What was the last amazing book you read? 
The last really amazing, steal-your-breath-away book was Affinity, by Sarah Waters. That novel struck me so hard, even though I've been tempted to re-read it, I've avoided it because I'm not sure my emotions could take it.
What can readers expect next from you? 
I'm working on the sequels to my first two books, Lotus Petals and Goblin Fires.  His Cemetery Doll is a standalone for now, so readers can enjoy it without having read any of my other works. For National Novel Writing Month I am working on a fantasy/historical BDSM novel, as well.




His Cemetery DollBrantwijn Serrah
Genre: Paranormal Erotic Romance
Publisher:  Breathless Press
Date of Publication: 10/24/14
ISBN: 978-1-77101-394-9ASIN:
Number of pages: 173Word Count: 53,000
Cover Artist: Happi Anarchy
Book Description:
There's a woman in the graveyard.
Conall Mackay never put stock in ghost stories. Not even after thirteen years serving as the cemetery keeper in the village of Whitetail Knoll. But things change. Now, his daughter is dreaming of a figure among the tombstones. The grounds are overrun by dark thorns almost faster than Con can clear them. White fog and gray ribbons creep up on him in the night, and a voiceless beauty beckons him from the darkest corners of the graves.
When the world he knows starts to unravel, Conall might finally be forced to believe

Book Trailer:  http://youtu.be/cKCkDLFP9KI


Excerpt:
He hadn't slept long before he heard sounds from down in the kitchen below."Shyla!" he called gruffly. "Weren't you heading into town?"No answer came from below, but the sounds of pots clanging told him his daughter toyed about down there. Perhaps she'd decided not to leave him after all and taken it into her head to now re-organize the house, since he'd so clearly wanted her to stay out of the cemetery. With a low groan, Conall rolled out of bed and stepped out into the hall."Shyla!" he called again, coming to the head of the stairs. If she had stayed home, she could at least do it without making a lot of noise."Shyla, I—"He staggered then, as the hallway dimmed. Afternoon light flickered strangely, lightning cracking a dismal sky outside, and in the space of time afterward everything else darkened. Conall darted a glance around him as the house fell into shadow.From the top of the stairwell, he saw the first whispering tendrils of white fog.The heat of adrenaline shot through his limbs. Conall stumbled back into his bedroom, even as the fog pursued. His gaze shot to the window as the last gray light of day faded away and eerie darkness replaced it, like an eclipse sliding over the sun. More cold mists veiled the glass, dancing and floating. Trembling overtook him as he spun to find another escape.He froze, finding himself face-to-face with the broken mask of the cemetery doll."You—" he gasped. His breath came out white as the fog enveloped them both, leaving a space of mere inches between them, so he could still see her expressionless face. Gray ribbons wound and curled through the air around him."Who are you?" he asked.The doll stared up at him. He sensed her searching, looking into his eyes even though hers remained covered. She held him there with her unseen gaze, until her cool, cold hand came up to touch his bare chest.Conall let out a low breath. He closed his eyes, and a shudder of strange ease rippled through his body. The cool pads of her fingers ran down his sternum, to his navel. The silky ribbons brushed along his side.Then he noticed her other hand. She lifted it up, to her own chest, and she held something tightly in her fingers: Shyla's stuffed dog."I made that...for my daughter," he whispered. The woman with the broken mask tilted her head down toward the small toy, studying it. For a fraction of a second, her fingers appeared to tighten around it. She returned her gaze to him, then, and the toy fell from her grip into the fog, forgotten."Wait—" he said, but she brought her other hand up to his chest to join the first, and he recognized eagerness in the way she pressed her icy skin against his. Her face tilted to him, and then came her lips again, ivory and flawless."I—" Conall breathed. "I...don't understand..."Her fingers slid up, around his neck, but he pulled away."No, this...this can't real. I'm asleep. I must be."Gray ribbons danced, pulling him back to her, and she stroked his face. He sucked in a breath at her touch and found his own hand coming up to brush hers."You're so cold," he said. "Like stone...but..."Her cool touch thrilled him; it made his skin tingle and the heat of his own body sing. Her perfect flesh did, in fact, prove soft under his hands, as if the contact with his worn calluses infused cold ivory with yearning. She caressed his cheek, and Conall leaned into it. Before he could stop himself, he bowed his head to her and kissed her frozen lips.



About the Author:
When she isn't visiting the worlds of immortals, demons, dragons and goblins, Brantwijn fills her time with artistic endeavors: sketching, painting, customizing My Little Ponies and sewing plushies for friends. She can't handle coffee unless there's enough cream and sugar to make it a milkshake, but try and sweeten her tea and she will never forgive you. She moonlights as a futon for four lazy cats, loves tabletop role-play games, and can spend hours watching Futurama, Claymore or Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she writes or draws.
In addition to her novels, Brantwijn has had several stories published in anthologies by Breathless Press, including the 2013 Crimson Anthology and 2014 Ravaged Anthology.  She's also had a short story published in the Cleiss Press Big Book of Orgasm and the anthology Coming Together Through The Storm. She hopes to have several more tales to tell as time goes on.  She has author pages on GoodReads and Amazon, and loves to see reader comments on her work.
Her short stories occasionally pop up at Foreplay and Fangs, her blog at http://brantwijn.blogspot.com
Brantwijn's Facebook: http://tinyurl.com/qf2bzwk
Foreplay and Fangs Supernatural Romance: http://tinyurl.com/q2cmnep
Brantwijn's Foreplay and Fangs blog: http://tinyurl.com/ljvvl6p
Twitter: @Brantwijn
Amazon Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/n4rnjqx
Goodreads Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/mxv9bmr

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Guest Blog and Giveaway with Lynn Richards

Loving the Wild WolfWild Wolves of MontanaBook 1Lynn Richards
Genre: paranormal, romantic erotica,bbw romance, werewolves, shifters
Publisher: Wolf PublishingDate of Publication: August 28, 2014
ASIN: B00N3GZ62A
Number of pages: 98      Word Count: 34,000
Book Description:
Roark Grayhawk’s past haunted the lone wolf. He’d become an enforcer to protect those weaker but had failed to protect his sister and she had paid the ultimate price.
Now, another woman needed his help. A woman Roark had tried desperately to ignore. He didn’t want the love of a mate. He didn’t deserve the love of a mate.
Curvy she-wolf Emma Jones has tried her whole life to make herself invisible to her powerful father—the alpha of the Blue Pine Pack. Now, he was forcing her into a marriage with a man who wasn’t her mate. Her mate was Roark Grayhawk, the wild wolf who protected the pack from danger.  Would he protect her?
Available at Amazon
 Excerpt 1:

Tonight’s run had been about saying goodbye. She’d visited her favorite places, planning to end the night watching Roark’s cabin until sunrise. She didn’t know exactly what her father had planned, but she knew she had to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Because she knew, whatever her father had decided, it would not be in her best interest to go along with his plan. She had a little money stashed away and she could start over someplace else. Despite what her father thought, she was a hard worker, she could make it. She was going to be forced to mate and leave the pack anyway; forced to say goodbye to Roark, why not do it on her own terms. Maybe some other pack would take her in. It was difficult for a wolf to make it alone. Roark was living proof that even the most reckless of wolves needed the structure of a pack in order to survive.
For so long, her hope had been that Roark would recognize her as his mate and claim her. Get past whatever it was that had made him withdraw from life. She’d fixated on that dream so much that she’d never considered what to do if it never happened. And certainly had never imagined the ultimatum that her father had thrown down. Perhaps if she were a more passionate woman, her wolf a stronger animal, she could seduce Roark, garnering, if not his love, then his protection.
But she wasn’t that woman. Never would be. She had no confidence in her value as a wolf. No confidence in her desirability as a woman. She’d grown up hearing the fairytale version of wolf mating where the male would risk everything for the love of his mate. Vanquish any demon. Fight any foe.
She sighed. Her life wasn’t a fairy tale. She’d wished for her own prince for too many years. Being a romantic was dangerous, Emma had discovered. She felt like she was now fighting a wicked stepmother and a nasty frog whose name was Brad. She shuddered. The man that her father had given her to in marriage was worse than any toad.
It was archaic. But it was still within his rights as her father and her alpha.

About the Author:
Lynn Richards is the writing team of two best friends. The only thing they argue about is who is going to stop writing and get the next chocolate bar. The two women love to share their writing with others who enjoy reading a romance with a happy-ever-after (always), sexual tension (you know the kind that make you want to squeeze your legs together), and a sexy alpha male, Whether he’s an ex-military man, firefighter, wolf, lion or dragon, all their male characters have one several things in common—they are delicious to look at, built like a brick outhouse, and fall instantly in love with the woman meant to be theirs.
http://www.lynnrichardsromance.com/
http://lynnrichardsromance.blogspot.com/
Twitterhttps://twitter.com/lynnrichardsrom
Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/lynn.richards.9822
Goodreadshttp://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4972911.Lynn_Richards

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Guest Blog and Giveaway: Haedyn’s Choice by Jennifer L. Oliver

Haedyn’s ChoiceThe Haedyn ChroniclesBook 1Jennifer L. Oliver
Genre: Dark fantasy
Publisher: Small Escapes Publishing, LLC
ASIN:  B00CPCCSRY
Number of pages: 212 pagesWord Count: 54,000
Cover Artist: Jennifer L. Oliver
Book Description:
There’s always a choice.
Haedyn chooses to survive. As the last Unnamed, a species mistakenly created from angels and demons, she is an abomination to both the human and supernatural worlds. If survival means being the favorite servant of the demon Azazel, it’s a choice she can live with. Until she meets Lex.
Former investigative reporter, Lex Carter knows more than the average human - he saw his brother murdered by vampires. Now he’s dedicated his life to learning everything there is to know about monsters, how to kill them, and what happens to their victims. But when he’s kidnapped by a super-human albino who claims she's protecting him, he realizes that not all supernatural creatures are monsters and there may be one that's worth saving.
Together, they just might be able to discover the truth about Haedyn’s past and free her from Azazel’s bonds. But will she still choose to survive when it means risking the souls of those she loves?
Available at Amazon
Excerpt Chapter 1
The concrete cell reeked with a mixture of rotten trash, burning flesh, and the sweet tanginess of blood. Haedyn twitched her nose. No matter how often she had to deal with it, she'd never get used to that smell. It was horrible.Dirt crunched and rolled under the soles of her boots as she circled the silver chair in the middle of the room. Its occupant was furious, snapping and snarling at her. Not that she blamed him. Being captured by a demon's minion wouldn't rate high on her list of fun, either.The prisoner struggled against his restraints. “Bitch. My Alpha’s gonna kill you. Just wait," he growled, pupils wide with the animosity of a trapped animal. "He’ll come here and rip through that white skin of yours like it's a sheet of paper, then hang your head on the wall like a trophy.”She rolled her eyes and ignored his aggression. Werewolves had the worst tempers, especially when they were wounded or trapped. This one was both. Plus, he’d been drugged and was unable to change to his more powerful wolf form. Yeah, he was beyond pissed.She sighed and continued circling. He'd wear himself out eventually. The anger and vile comments were all part of the process. Then the next phase would begin, full of tears and begging. That's when she'd break him, make him tell her where to find the human. But for now, she'd play the game until he was ready.“Where's the human?”"I ain't telling you shit." He spat on the floor at her feet."Tell me where the human is and I'll set you free."The werewolf narrowed his yellow eyes. "You won't set me free. You think I don't know who you are? You're that demon Azazel's little bitch. You don't set no one free. You kill 'em."Haedyn clenched her jaw. The werewolf was right; he wasn't going to leave here alive. She needed that information and there was only one way he was going to tell her. Poor sap. He just forced her hand.She circled the chair again. This was the part of the job she hated. Inflicting pain. Killing. Every time she heard them scream, made them bleed, she swore a piece of her insides turned to dust.It was the price she paid for serving a demon. But she didn't have a choice. Either she did what was expected of her or she faced punishment from her master.Demons didn’t give second chances, and Azazel was no different. Disobeying his orders meant death. And even if she was stupid enough to go up against him, she had no one to turn to for help.She was the last Unnamed. A mistake created by the demons and angels, which is why they killed off the rest of her kind. Humans mistakenly called her “albino” and kept their distance once they saw her deep red eyes. The supernatural world thought she was an abomination. If they weren't scared shitless of her, then they wanted to kill her.She didn't fit in and she was all alone. Which is why she made the decision fourteen years ago to do whatever she had to in order to survive. Serving Azazel was the only choice she had.Besides, what else would she do? She was evil, part demon. And like Azazel said the night he found her at the orphanage, she had a gift for death. One which he had honed. Now, she was his best interrogator, his best assassin.Haedyn looked again at the werewolf. He shifted and squirmed, pulling at his shackles. Drops of blood beaded along his forehead. She smelled the panic and the fear mixed in with his sweat. Then she met his eyes. For a brief moment, a part of her screamed to let him go. She quickly pushed the impulse away.Discipline. She had to maintain discipline. Compassion was a weakness. How many times had Azazel pounded that into her during their sessions? Fourteen years of intense training and still she had to remind herself.She closed her eyes, burying the whispers of empathy deep inside. A stillness settled within her. Then she re-emerged as the cold-hearted, unemotional assassin Azazel had molded her into.This is what she was trained to be. This is what she was trained to do. Save them. Deliver them. It's what kept her alive, and that’s all that mattered.

About the Author:
During her many years of working at a daily newspaper, Jennifer L. Oliver honed her writing skills in secret. As an avid reader, she enjoys books that give her an entertaining and temporary escape from the ruckus of everyday life. Now, she hopes to bring the same enjoyment to others through her own work. 
Jennifer is the author of The Haedyn Chronicles, and other dark urban fantasy and paranormal thrillers. She is also a freelance proofreader and always looking for the opportunity to help other authors reach their publishing dreams.
Although she was born and raised in North Carolina, she now lives on Florida's gulf coast with her husband, two cats, and a Royal Bahamian Potcake dog who is more than half her size and thinks the world revolves around treats. When she's not writing, you can find her playing in the flower garden, giggling with her granddaughter, and enjoying time with her family and friends.
www.jenniferloliver.com
https://www.facebook.com/JenniferLOliverAuthor
https://plus.google.com/+JenniferLOliver
https://twitter.com/Jenn_L_Oliver
http://pinterest.com/jennlewisoliver/
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6561912.Jennifer_L_Oliver
  

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November 5 Guest blogFang-tastic Bookswww.fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com
November 6 Top Ten ListDarkest Cravingswww.darkestcravings.blogspot.com
November 7 InterviewThe Creatively Green Write at Home Momwww.creativelygreen.blogspot.com
November 10 Character InterviewAuthor Karen Swartwww.authorkarenswart.blogspot.com

Spotlight and Giveaway At Death's Door by Astrid V. Tallaksen

At Death's DoorFreefallBook OneAstrid V. Tallaksen        
Genre: Urban Fantasy/Paranormal Romance
Date of Publication: 8/1/2014
ISBN: 1500486922ASIN: B00MU3PSES
Number of pages: 232Word Count: 79,003  
Cover Artist: Indie-Spired Designs
Book Description:
The world is a pretty straightforward place. Even for medium Sara Stone things seem pretty simple, aside from the whole talking to spirits bit. But when the spirits get too hard to handle and Sara ends up admitted to a mental hospital, the world starts to seem a lot less straightforward. First her family disappears, including her four year old son. Then she gets the sneaking suspicion that not only are the staff at the mental hospital somehow connected, but they also have no intention of ever letting her leave the hospital.
Everything changes when Sara has her first visitor in three months. Daniel is handsome, friendly, and a complete stranger. When he promises to spring her from the hospital and swears that everything she's experienced is completely real, Sara has no choice but to believe him. But once she reaches a run-down Victorian house in the tiny Alabama town her rescuer calls home, the last thing she expects to discover is that every memory she has is a lie.
Daniel reveals a world filled with angels, demons, and an impending war humans know nothing about. Sara wants to ignore her role in the whole mess – all that matters is solving the mystery of where her son has gone. But the forces of Heaven, Hell, and the Heart have other plans for her. Can she find her child before the world comes crashing down?
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Chapter 1           Apparently having conversations with dead people means you're crazy. And no matter how long you try to hide the strange ability, someone is going to find out and they're going to start questioning your sanity. Unfortunately, the more you try to shut out the ghosts who need you to listen, the louder they shout. And the more you try to get your family to understand, the crazier they think you are. Eventually, between your own helplessness and your family's disbelief in your open line with the other side, you end up on a one way trip to the mental hospital.
***                        I don't think I left my room at the hospital except when it was required; for meals, for processing group, and to see the doctor. If it wasn't mandatory for those I wouldn't even do that. The doctor only gave me more medication, and the people in group—who had their own issues—just stared at me. There was no point bothering to “contribute” anymore, and the therapist leading it didn't bother trying to make me. If I had refused to leave my room I doubt anyone would have said much after the first few days of prodding me to go. It wasn't like I was going to be evicted. I was too “crazy” for that. It was supposed to be a short-term treatment facility, but I'd been there for three and a half months, wondering how long it would be before they'd transfer me to something more permanent. When were they going to figure out that no medicine, no therapy, nothing they did or said was going to change what they thought was wrong with me? The problem, as my family and the doctors saw it, was that I believed I talked to dead people. I'd hidden it for so long, but in the last year the dead had become so insistent, the things they said so absurd, and I'd tried twice to kill myself. To be honest, I'm not sure if it was the suicide attempts or the seeing dead people that convinced them to hospitalize me indefinitely. The doctor was perplexed, and of course didn't believe a word I said. My family was downright frightened of me. In fact, at some point during my hospital stay, they disappeared. Took my son and fled, as far as I knew. The terrifying part? The doctors and the police all insisted I had no son, and the address where I claimed to live was the residence of an elderly couple who knew nothing of me. How could they have forgotten that my mother was the one who brought me to the hospital? How could they forget the times my son's father brought him to visit? I pleaded with the doctor to believe me, telling him my son had been kidnapped and I could have sworn he laughed.             Through all of this I still saw and heard the dead; on a good day it was only a couple pushing at me to listen. Translucent figures, young and old, whispered secrets of their loved ones, insisting I go find them. The torture seemed almost intentional and there was no way to make them stop, no blades, nothing to at least distract me. I tried to ignore them, but a pillow over your head won't deafen voices in your mind even if you can't see their distraught or laughing or angry faces. While trying to use the sharp edge of metal under the sink to cut into my wrists, the nurse caught me on her rounds. I ended up sedated and in bed, wanting to scream in frustration at the ghosts nobody else could see. My body and mind were too drugged to do anything but stare at the ceiling. I didn't believe in god, but prayed for death. The next time I wouldn't fail, I swore to myself.             I waited, only leaving my room to eat when a nurse came in, pulled me to my feet, and directed me to the common room. The food wasn't bad, but being around people was getting harder and harder. Their loved ones would stand behind them and beg me to give them a voice. When I'd first gotten to the hospital and the ghosts asked, I shared their requests. But it scared the other patients, and angered the nurses. Ignoring the dead made them louder and more insistent. It soon became too difficult to hear what the real people were saying, and I just tried to nod when they expected it. Mostly they didn't.             Two weeks after that first attempt, four months into my stay, I filled the bathroom sink and immersed my head to drown myself. I took a deep breath of water, then another, but fell to the floor choking. A nurse came again, and tried to help me, but I was so angry at failing again that I swung a fist and then tried to strangle her. The ghosts cheered me on, the sadistic pieces of shit. Another nurse came and managed to subdue me long enough to pop a needle into my hip, which dropped me like a poleaxed bull in the space of two breaths. They must have used a stronger sedative that time. I woke up, who knows how long later, in a different room, on a different bed, in very uncomfortable restraints. The ghosts were STILL talking, at such a volume and so many at a time that I couldn't understand anything they said, except for the repeated word “apocalypse”.            “STOP!” I rasped when I could take no more, my voice hoarse from the unsuccessful attempt at drowning. “I can't hear you all! You have to stop, please just stop. I can't tell everyone your messages. It makes them sad or angry. I don't know why you have to talk to me all the fucking time!”            The other dead fell back, faded away, as one stepped forward. Why were they suddenly willing to be quiet on behalf of one particular spirit? Unlike the myriad others who plagued me, this man was nearly corporeal. His deep voice wasn't distant or faint, although he still spoke in hushed tones. “We talk to you because you are different. We talk to you because the apocalypse is coming and you have to help.”            “I can't help if you make me look like a nutcase! I can't help if I can't hear myself think because all of you are constantly in my ear. And most of all, I can't help if I'm stuck in this place. Nobody is ever going to sign off that I'm safe to go home. Least of all if I'm lying in a padded room in restraints talking to ghosts.”            “You have no idea just how much you can help.” In all the time I'd seen the ghosts of the dead, I'd never had an actual conversation with any of them. They would tell me what they wanted their loved ones to know, or if they were the more recent ones, they'd tell me the apocalypse was coming or that that world was going to end, but they never responded to anything I had to say to them. My heart was like a battering ram trying to burst through my ribs as the new spirit spoke. He appeared thirty-five or forty years old, with short brown hair and the palest blue eyes. “We'll try to be quieter, but you have to be ready.”            Closing my eyes for a moment, I wondered if I should be grateful for his promise to give me a little peace, or terrified at his insistence that I could help. The idea of an apocalypse seemed far-fetched, and the idea that I could somehow have anything to do with it, whether for better or worse, seemed even less believable.  When I opened my eyes to ask the innumerable questions swimming around in my head I was alone and the room was silent for the first time in years. And for the first time in years, I closed my eyes and slept, deep and dreamless, for hours. He wasn't joking about the quiet.  I wasn't sure how long it was until a nurse woke me while loosening my restraints.             “Think you can be kind to yourself and the staff?” she asked me with what sounded like a combination of gentleness and sarcasm.             I sat up as she finished the straps on my arms, “I'll try to behave myself.” My voice was just as gentle and sarcastic as hers. The last of the straps fell away and I swung my feet over the side, stood up, and followed her to the door. I looked at the clock as we walked to the nurse's station to check my vitals for the day and give me my afternoon medicine. An hour until visitation. Last time for the week. I always waited in the common room just in case my parents or my son were, by some miracle, to show back up for a visit and say I was going home. No matter how unrealistic it might be, I couldn't tell myself to give up. Ghosts, a key part in the apocalypse, and the undying belief in something impossible—maybe I did need to be here after all.            “Sara, you have a visitor.” A nurse touched my shoulder and pointed to a man, about my age, 28, standing in the doorway to the common room. He was tall, six five I would have guessed, considering he was nearly a head taller than me, and I'm a good six feet tall. Shaggy dark hair curled around his ears and grazed the collar of his shirt. He looked a bit embarrassed or unsure about being in the psych ward of a hospital, but when his gaze landed on me, the tension went out of his body as if he had all at once become much more at home in the place.  His smile wasn't exactly bright or cheery, but it was still a smile aimed at me that wasn't faked. He came and sat across from me at one of the many tables in the room, all of which had families visiting with their loved ones. For the first time in three months, I had a visitor. To my disappointment it was neither my parents nor my son and his father, nor anyone else I had ever met in my life. Maybe he was confused. He didn't look confused—at least not anywhere near as much as me. And for once the dead were nowhere to be found; just my luck. When the blue-eyed man had offered peace and quiet, I didn't know this was coming down the line. I cursed the damned wily ghost. And then myself for being so strange.            “Umm, Sara,” the man said my name, pulling me out of my odd little reverie, “You look a little out of it. How much did they sedate you today?” He seemed to know a little more than I was comfortable with about my current situation. I frowned, my forehead creasing, and looked down. He reached forward, pushed the curtain of red hair out of my face and lifted my chin so I'd look at him. His eyes were golden brown, like amber, and he looked at me like he'd known me for years.            “Not to be rude, but who the fuck are you? I wasn't exactly expecting anyone to visit today.” Sarcasm was my usual defense.             “Daniel, I'm Daniel,” he introduced himself, ducking his head in a sort of apology. “I know it's out of the blue, especially after the few months—”            “Months?! Try last couple forever! I've never met you before! Then you show up 'out of the blue',” I punctuated the obvious sarcasm with the symbol for quotes as I tried to somehow yell at him without raising my voice, “just so conveniently after I've spent the last 4 months, all by myself, in a fucking nut-house that was supposed to be temporary and wouldn't have been necessary at all if I didn't have some stupid—” I stopped talking, because there was a very good chance he had no idea what I did. Maybe he was investigating the disappearance of my family; I doubted it. Nobody else would even acknowledge they'd ever existed.            “I know about your … what you see and hear. That's why I'm here. I can't get you out of here right now. I don't have that kind of pull. And if you do manage to get out on your own—barring the likelihood that you'll be sent to a long-term facility first—we'll have to find somewhere safe to take you. You have to stick it out.  I know you aren't crazy.” He kept leaning toward me even though I was pulling away, our conversation a shared secret that he spoke in a low voice. If he hadn't seemed so serious about it all I'd think it was some sort of joke. He knew too much about me, and cared too much about what happened to me. Too bad he didn't care enough to get me out. “Listen to them okay?”            “To the doctors and nurses?” I asked incredulously. The hell I would. That was asking too damned much.            “No,” he laughed although the mirth didn't reach his eyes, “your ghosts. They're a part of all of this.”            “Part of all of what? How do you know I'm not crazy? Why can't you get me out of here right now? Why do you even care?” I had so many questions that he might answer with some degree of honesty instead of just penalizing me for even thinking about it. This was the very tip of things starting to make sense, but I felt like every tiny answer he laid out caused me to have ten more questions. “For that matter, who are you? Just your name isn't much information—anyone could give any name. How much DO you know about me?”            “Most of those questions I can't answer while you're in here, I'm so sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand rolling a pencil back and forth on the table. It looked like he was holding his breath, and when he released it in one long exhale it was to continue speaking. Maybe he really was distraught that he couldn't answer more of my questions. “I know you are Sara Stone, 28. You were born in Chicago, raised here in Birmingham, Alabama. You have a son, four years old, and you're a single mom.  And you talk to people nobody else can see or hear. There's more, but we can't talk about it here.” His eyes never left my face as he listed everything he knew about me. When he reached out as if to take my hand I pulled it away into my lap, his gaze breaking from mine for the first time and looking down at the table where my hand had been as if I'd somehow hurt him by removing it. “When we get you out of here, I'll tell you everything. I swear it. I know my word means nothing to you, but it means everything to me, and I would never hurt you, of all people.”            “When you get me out of here? You know about my son and you won't tell me where the hell he is. Do you even know? The problem is, every time you tell me something I just want to know something else, and all you keep saying is you can't tell me while I'm here. I might never leave here! Or if I do, it will just be to somewhere more permanent.” The nurses were looking at me as my voice rose in anger. “Saying you can't tell me, just makes me think that it's all a conspiracy, and I'm here because someone isn't letting me leave.”            “Shhhh you have to calm down,” he urged me in a harsh whisper. “It's not one person you can't trust, it's all of them. We have no idea who does what here, but something isn't right. They have all the power in the world to never sign the papers for you to leave. And I can't make them, no matter how much I want to. I'm not a doctor, and I'm not family as far as they know. You just need to go with the flow, make them happy, and maybe they'll let you go. I'll leave you a cell phone so that if they do, then you can call me.”             “If the dead stay quiet, then I'll stay calm and go with the status quo. I can't promise anything if they don't. Trust me, I don't want to be sedated and restrained any more than most people. Here least of all,” I assured him, lifting my hands from my lap, resting my elbows on the table and my forehead in my palms. Falling apart, panicking, wasn't an option. He knew about my son, but he didn't say he knew where Danny was. All I wanted to think about was how to find him. But I could only do that if I got out of the hospital. “And even if they let me leave, where do I go? My apartment is already leased to someone else I'm sure. You said my son was real, but you didn't say my parents were. Even if they were at home and just telling people they don't know me, I obviously can't go there. Do they have Danny and just think I'm not stable enough to take care of him? If you know where he is you better fucking tell me.”            “I'll take you home,” he promised. What the heck was that supposed to mean? I just said I couldn't go home, and I didn't think he misunderstood me. The fog of the sedative still lingered, and I was so frustrated and scared I found myself on the verge of tears. I rubbed at my eyes to hold them at bay, and as I pulled my hands away, Daniel grabbed both and held them. “I know it's hard, almost impossible. Just please believe me. This whole terrible part of your life is going to be over soon. And I'll make sure you get through it safely and find your son. I promise.”            “I don't have much choice but to trust you, do I? Just get me out of here. Get me back to my son.” I didn't pull my hands away. His were warm and they surrounded mine, and for the moment that was more comforting than the coldness of the hospital. He let one hand go and reached to the pocket of the leather jacket he wore, pulling out two things. One was a crappy prepaid cell phone which he set on the table, the other was an odd, woven bronze torc bracelet that he slipped onto my wrist. It was beautiful, looked ancient, and had been made with impeccable craftsmanship. It didn't take a person with strong intuition to know it was somehow important. But I couldn't decipher why in the world he would want me to wear something so precious. I frowned and looked up at him, waiting for some explanation.            “The phone is off right now. I can't and won't call you on it, and I don't want it to be dead when you're finally able to leave. Turn it on and call the third number in the contact list, and I'll be here to get you within 15 minutes.”            "And the bracelet?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.            Taking my wrist in his hand, he ran a finger over the cool metal, “I know it seems strange to give you a random piece of jewelry, but I just..." he hesitated, looking at me with a pained expression, "I just need you to wear it. I promise you I'll explain when you get out of here. I know you aren't seeing any spirits right this moment, but at some point they'll be back. You really need to try to get out as soon as possible when that happens, if you haven't gotten out already by that point.”            “Why does it matter how soon I get out of here. It might never happen. It's a lot more likely they'll just take me to Wallace.”            “Just do what I say, please. It will make everything easier. And if things don't go as planned, I WILL find you.” He squeezed my hand and stood up, and I followed suit. Maybe he was just used to hugging people, or he thought I was in desperate need of a hug, but without warning he enveloped me in his substantial embrace, holding me a bit longer than I expected to be comfortable with. It wasn't uncomfortable though. I found myself returning the hug, my forehead resting against a chest that was reassuring and solid, and I wasn't even a hugging person. “I've got to go now,” he said as he stepped away, one hand lingering on my shoulder as he looked back toward the nurse who was stepping into the common room to tell all the visitors they needed to leave. “Try to stick it out and give them no reason to keep you and call me when you're able to leave. I'll be waiting.”            “I'll try,” I agreed, more than a little worried about him leaving me here alone again. There was no reason I should trust him anymore than the staff at this place, but he believed me and seemed to be more forthcoming and also more concerned with my well-being. Maybe I was crazy (they thought I was), but my instinct said that if there was anyone I could trust, it was this man who just happened to show up four months into my stay at the looney-bin. Now, as he was telling me goodbye, I realized I couldn't wait for him to come and get me. He was a glimpse at freedom, and I was ready to see it from the outside instead of just through his veiled promises of hope. “You'd better be for real. I can't handle hoping for something that's a lie.”            “I am real—probably more than most things you've had to live through recently, as terrible as they've been,” he reassured me, with another quick side hug and a tap at my temple—referring, I guessed, to the spirits. “Don't forget.” The nurse ushered him out along with the other visitors and shut the door behind them. The click of the lock was almost painful. I only had time to ask that the cell phone be put in my bag in the closet where they kept most of our belongings. They wouldn't keep the bracelet, if they noticed it at all, because we were allowed watches, books, toiletries, hair bands, and simple jewelry that couldn't be used to hurt ourselves or anyone else. I had to go back to the common room for the dinner they were carting in while we put away our things or got ready to eat. It was a relief to eat without ghosts telling me this and that, or begging to tell their loved one how they died or that they loved them, or whispering in my ear about the apocalypse.             After dinner was the usual nighttime group session where we told whether we met our goals for the day and what we learned. It wasn't much more than repetitive psychobabble, but I did as Daniel had urged, interacting with the group when necessary and staying quiet whenever I could. The therapist stared at me; I'd caught her off guard when I responded when spoken to, and she seemed to perk up quite a bit as if she alone was responsible for the miracle.             “I take it restraints and sedation don't get along with you, Sara?” Her voice was over-sweet and flippant. I had a strong urge to punch her, but I didn't; I wanted to leave far too much for that. I imagined myself in the passenger side of Daniel's car as we pulled away from the hospital and sped off before they could make me come back.            “Yes ma'am I suppose you're right. Not many people like restraints and sedation I guess. And they changed my meds too,” I admitted. “Maybe they're helping, because I'm not hearing the dead people anymore.” Lying was something I'd become quite good at thanks to my special “gift”. The therapist, Roxanne, seemed pleased to hear what I had to say, and gave me a hug after the group session before letting the nurse know I was “feeling better”. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't because of anything the staff here had done. I glanced down at my wrist to see what time it was before I remembered it wasn't a watch I was wearing, but instead the strange bronze torc Daniel had given me. How long would I have to wait for the doctor to write my release?  What if he never did? That was a scary thought I didn't want to entertain.


About the Author:
Debut author Astrid V. Tallaksen grew up in North Alabama. She was fortunate to be raised with a heart for stories of creatures and places outside of this world. Her love of reading quickly became a love of writing. 
She spent several years creating content and helping writers to improve their craft on the online world of Althanas, a creative writing workshop in the guise of a roleplaying forum. 
A self-avowed nerd, Astrid loves science fiction, comic books, and eighties fantasy movies in the vein of The Princess Bride and Labyrinth. Her geekiness extends to annual volunteer work at the massive sci-fi convention known as Dragon*con every year in Atlanta, Georgia. 
In the odd times that she's not immersed in geekdom or writing, Astrid loves to sing karaoke, crochet, and spend time with her family and pets.
https://www.facebook.com/authorastridvtallaksen
Twitter: @astrid_writes
Blog: http://authorastridvtallaksen.wordpress.com
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8389080.Astrid_V_Tallaksen

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Guest Blog and Giveaway Chasing the Sun by Sasha Abernathy

Chasing the SunAn Earth Relic NovelBook 1Sasha Abernathy
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Crimson Frost BooksDate of Publication: October 21, 2014
ISBN: TBDASIN: TBD
Cover Artist: Suzannah Safi
Book Description:
Hunted by Chaos. Protected by Death. Guided by Fire.
Terran is now the key to a world she never knew existed.
Normal was what Terran did best – house, job, dog, friends – rinse and repeat. She never knew demigods existed, or that you could journey to other realms, manipulate nature with your mind, or that the dead weren’t really gone at all, but instead existed in the Underworld. No, she lived the mundane life of any twenty-seven-year-old Alaskan girl…until she met Aiden, the complicated and gorgeous new local art gallery owner.
As their fiery relationship evolves into something more, Terran finds herself surrounded by a world of nightmares and gods, when the mysterious Aiden proves to be more than a simple man. Soon, Terran finds that she is not so simple herself. As an ancient evil threatens to escape and unleash all Hell, Terran must dive into a magical world she never knew existed to save them all…even if that means giving up her life to do it.


Excerpt 3
When I walked in, I could feel an energy in the air. Its warm and soft pulse had a slight humming sensation that tickled my skin. Wisps of heat surrounded my necklace as it pulsed ever so slightly. Amazing. I had taken care of these plants their whole lives, from seedlings to sale. They truly felt like a piece of me now. As I tended to the flowers in the back of the shop, blue, purple, white, and yellow petals swayed to a gentle rhythm as I moved to the music playing in my earbuds. Was this the gift Marc had given me?  If it was, it had gotten stronger. No way, this could be real. It was so bizarre. I had to know if anyone else saw this. I needed to find someone I could trust. I decided I would call Jon.I ran to the ladies’ room and whipped out my phone. Please pick up, please pick up. After five rings, he finally answered."Terran? Sorry, I was in a meeting. What's up?""Are you super busy? I need a favor, a kind of crazy favor.""Okay. Anything, but first are you okay?" It wasn’t like me to call Jon while he was at the office, so his concern was definitely warranted."I'm not hurt, but I might be crazy." I laughed, my tone laced with an anxiety that couldn’t be contained. "Can you meet me at the nursery? I could use your eyes for something.""Sure. I'll be there in about twenty. Do you need anything while I'm on my way?""Just you, please. I'm in the back where we keep the marigolds."It only took Jon about fifteen minutes to get here. He must have been worried and speeding. I was back with the marigolds when I heard him enter the room. I turned to see him in his dark charcoal suit with a light blue dress shirt. He looked handsome as usual."Are you okay?" he asked as he came in to hug me. We embraced and I instantly felt better. Jon always made me feel safe."I think so, I just think I'm going crazy." Tears pooled in my eyes as I had finally admitted out loud the one thing that I feared most."Oh, sweetheart. I'm sure that's not true. What's going on?"I told him about the plants moving for me. I didn't want to repeat myself and I knew Micah would want to know about Seth. I wasn't sure I wanted to share the dancing plants bit with her."Watch… " I leaned over the marigold and brushed the tips of my fingers across the petals, moving my hand in a quick swipe over all the ones I could reach. Each little red, yellow, and gold petal shivered and shook, wiggling like you would when you get a chill, an involuntary movement. And like a newborn, they began searching for their mother, swaying and leaning towards me. My pulse sped up, the heat from my necklace warmed me to my core. It was a perfect heat, a warmth that exhilarated my soul. I turned back to Jon, who watched with intensity. And when I looked into his eyes, I could tell he had seen nothing. His eyes saddened as he realized I knew.





About the Author:
Born in Germany to a Puerto Rican mother and All-American Military father, who saw fit to give her a Russian name, Sasha Abernathy has always loved storytelling, traveling, and doing all things silly. Raised in Oklahoma, but eventually moving everywhere from Alaska to Spain, Sasha has finally settled in the beautiful state of Colorado. With her loving husband, two wild sons, and neurotic labradoodle, Sasha is surrounded by way too much testosterone and escapes through her mysteriously whimsical and romantic novels.
http://sashaabernathy.blogspot.com/
http://www.sashaabernathy.com/
https://www.facebook.com/SashaAbernathyBooks
Twitter: @EarthRelic

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Spotlight and Giveaway: Christmas in Transylvania By Sandra Hill

Christmas in TransylvaniaA Deadly Angels NovellaBy Sandra Hill
On-Sale 10/28/2014  
ISBN: 9780062117557
Book Description:
For the first time ever the leader of the Viking Vampire Angels, Vikar Sigurdsson, has been talked into celebrating a traditional Christmas! The tree has been decorated, the gifts have been wrapped and the stockings have been hung. And that’s mistletoe, not cobwebs hanging from the ceiling of the creepy castle full of vangels…really!
The icing on the vampire cookie comes when vangel Karl Mortensen rescues Faith Larson, a battered young waitress, from her abusive boyfriend and hides her in the castle amidst the Christmas chaos. But what Karl thought was a frail young teenager is actually a very tempting woman. And she thinks his fangs are sexy!
But a strange “Christmas visitor” at the castle and demon vampires up to their old tricks could threaten the budding romance between Karl and Faith. It’s an impossible match: a human and a vangel, but Christmas is a time for magic.
Karl and Faith don’t stand a chance…

Available at Amazon

CHAPTER ONE
Santa with fangs?…
“’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the castle, not a creature was stirring, not even a bat--”“Very funny!”  Vikar Sigurdsson elbowed Karl Mortensen and almost knocked him off his kitchen stool.  They sat side by side at the twenty-foot island counter in the huge castle kitchen.  Karl’s halfbrained rewording of the famous yuletide story had been in response to Vikar’s telling him that Alex, Vikar’s wife, wanted them to have a traditional Christmas celebration this year, complete with holly, and decorated trees, and caroling, and feasts, and Santa Claus, and jingle bells, and gifts.  All that ho-ho-ho nonsense.‘Twas enough to give a thousand-plus-year-old Viking vampire angel a headache!Yes, Vikar lived in a lackwit, rundown castle (more like falling down, if you ask me, which no one ever does) in lackwit Transylvania, and, no, not Transylvania, Romania.  No, this was lackwit Transylvania, Pennsylvania (Don’t ask!).  As for bats, three years ago when he’d begun the renovation of this hundred-year-old, seventy-five room monstrosity, they’d had to first remove ten tons of guano.  (That’s bat shit, to you uninformed.)  And they still hadn’t eliminated all of the irksome creatures.  Try sleeping at night to the sound of flapping wings in the turrets.  Not that vangels (Viking vampire angels, to you uniformed, again.  Jeesh!), like himself, weren’t accustomed to the sound of flapping wings, but usually it was from St. Michael the Archangel, their heavenly mentor aka Pain In The Arse, whom they rudely referred to as Mike.  (When he was not around.)Vikar sipped at his long-necked bottle of beer.  He and Karl were enjoying a mid-afternoon break from battle training down in the dungeons while Alex was off somewhere, probably dreaming up more of her honey-do jobs for him.  Not that I haven’t told her more than once that they are more like honey-damn-don’t chores. This is how the conversations usually went:“Honey, we need another bathroom on the fourth floor.”
What was it with this “we” business.  Women always used the “we” card when trying to convince men of one thing or another.“We already have two bathrooms on the fourth floor.”
Vikar recalled a time when the only toilet facilities were wooden holes in an outdoor privy or a private spot in the woods.  It had been cold enough betimes to turn a cock into an icicle.“I know.  That’s why we need three.  Whew!  It is so hot today.  I think I’ll go take a bubble bath.  I don’t suppose…”
Alex knew sure as Eve tempted Adam that Vikar loved taking bubble baths with her.  There was something about popping bubbles that appealed to the boy in him.  Or the man.
Face it, she pays no attention to my complaints.  All she has to do is smile in that certain way, or hint at some sexual play, and I am Norse putty in her hands.  Like this most recent, brilliant idea of hers.  Holy clouds!  She will be turning us all into ridiculous Santa Clauses.  With fangs!He glanced over at Karl who was sipping with distaste from a bottle of Fake-O.  Vikar could have told him it was better to just chug the crap down and cleanse the palate with a bottle of beer.  Fake-O was the synthetic blood vangels drank when they’d been too long from feeding during a mission.Karl was a quiet kind of guy, the type that didn’t feel the need to talk just to fill gaps in a conversation.  A man’s man, modern folks would say.  He did the jobs that were handed to him with competency.  No whining or complaints, like Vikar’s brother Trond was wont to do, especially if it involved anything strenuous.  Trond was a sloth if there ever was one, although he was working to reform himself from his grave sin, as they all were.
There was a sadness about Karl, too, but not like Vikar’s brother Mordr who for centuries turned his sadness into a berserk madness, killing practically everything that got in his pathway.  Mordr’s sin had of course been wrath.Vikar liked Karl.Breaking the companionable silence, Vikar continued with his tirade,  “It would be a sacrilege for us to celebrate such a commercial holiday, wouldn’t it?  We’re practically angels.”“Practically?” Karl snorted.  “You didn’t look very angelic when I saw you coming out of your bedroom this morning.”
Vikar grinned in remembrance.  Three years he’d been wed, with more than a thousand years of experience in the bed arts under his belt, literally, and still his wife could surprise him.
“Besides, Vikings back in your time celebrated the holiday season, didn’t you?”In my time? Vikar mused.  Makes me sound ancient.  Which I am.  Still, I like to think of myself as my thirty-three human years.Karl was a Viking, too…all vangels were, by birth if not descent…but he was young for a vangel, having died only about forty years ago during the Vietnam War.“Vikings celebrated the Yule season with great vigor.  ‘Tis true.  Yule logs and gift giving.  Feasts.  Not a religious holiday, more a commemoration of the Winter Solstice.  It was nothing like the secular extremes evident today.  Even though we did, of course, have reindeer in the Norselands.  None with a red nose, though, that I recall.”“It could be as secular or not, as you wish,” Karl said.  “Besides, Alex is right.  Kids should experience the holiday season.  And this will be the first Christmas that yours are old enough to understand.”
The traitor! Vikar thought at Karl’s siding with his wife, but then he was probably right.  Gunnar and Gunnora, Vikar and Alex’s “adopted” twins, were three years old.  For the past four days, ever since Thanksgiving…another chaotic holiday Alex had talked him into!…Gun and Nora had been yipping and yapping about Santa this and Rudolph that and jingle belling ‘til Vikar’s head hurt.  It had all started when they’d gone to something called “Black Friggsday” at the mall.  Rather, “Black Friday.”  Betimes, he still fell into the old Norse words, like Friggsday for Friday, because, after all, despite being a vampire angel, he was a Viking at heart.  Which should be good enough reason to not have to be reminded to ever fall for that trap again.  “Honey, would you drive us to the mall?  Gun and Nora need new shoes.  It will be fun.”  Hah!  If I never hear “Alvin and the Chipmunks” again, it will be too soon!“Did you celebrate Christmas when you were growing up?” he asked Karl.
The young man…even though Karl had forty-two vangel years on top of his twenty-two human ones, Vikar still thought of him as young…rarely spoke of his past.  His situation had been unique amongst the vampire angels since he’d left behind a young wife who lived out her human years until she died two years ago at age sixty-two.  Imagine staying the same age yourself but watching a loved one grow older and older and then perish of a wasting disease!Karl smiled.  A sad smile, Vikar noticed.  “Yes.  I grew up on a small farm in Minnesota with a brother and two sisters.  We were poor as church mice, even though my Dad worked from dawn ‘til dusk milking cows and growing corn and hay.  Mom had a big vegetable garden and put away hundreds of Mason jars filled with different things every fall.  String beans, carrots, peas, corn, limas, beets, pickles, chow chow, peaches, pears, applesauce.  If it grew, she preserved it.“We had a Christmas tree, of course, with strings of ancient lights that were probably a fire hazard.  And old ornaments.  Homemade ones, too.  We believed in Santa Claus, early on, anyhow.  We even believed the old tale that animals talk on Christmas Eve.  Many a night, us kids snuck out of the house to the barn to listen.  I swore I heard old Bessie say, ‘Moo-rry Christmas’ one time.”  He laughed.And Vikar laughed with him.  It was a revelation hearing Karl talk about his background.  He hardly ever talked about himself.“Mostly our gifts were practical ones.  Maybe a handknitted sweater or mittens or socks.  Nuts, hard candies, and some fruit that was out-of-season for us, like nectarines, would be in our stockings, which we hung without fail over the fireplace.”There are thirty fireplaces in this friggin’ castle, Vikar mused, and had a sudden horrifying image of stockings hanging from every one of them.  Some of the younger vangels were often like children themselves and would sure as sin be wishing for gifts from the fat man in the red suit.  Images of Armod, the sixteen-year-old vangel from Iceland, immediately came to mind.  Armod fancied himself Michael Jackson reincarnated.  (You do not want to see a Viking vampire moonwalking!  Trust me!)“Each of us only got one present,” Karl continued.
Over the holiday there could be as many as a hundred vangels in residence at the castle, especially if his brothers came with their contingents.  Knowing Alex, she’d probably already issued invitations.  Surely, he wouldn’t be expected to go gift shopping for all of them.  Would he?  Vikar shuddered with mall tremors.His headache felt as if it were growing.  Maybe he was developing a brain tumor.  Good idea.  That might be sufficient excuse for Alex to get the Christmas bug out of her…um, head.“One gift only, but, man, it was always something special.  I remember the year I got a BB gun.”“And your parents didn’t worry that you would shoot your eye out?” Vikar asked, referring to the famous line from “The Christmas Story,” a movie some of his vangels loved.“Nah!  Growing up on a farm, we were used to hunting and stuff.  I got to be a pretty good shot, too.  That’s why I was recruited to be a sniper in the Army, and--”  Karl’s words trailed off.  He never spoke of his time in Vietnam, the time of his great sin.  “Anyhow, there’s nothing for a kid like those weeks leading up to Christmas.  The smells of evergreens in the house and the baking.  Ma made a dozen different kind of cookies, and pies, even homemade fruit cake.  And the Christmas dinner was a regular feast with turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, rutabaga and corn, string bean casserole, cranberry sauce, fresh fruit salad, and rolls warm from the oven dripping with butter.”At the mention of all that baking and food preparation, their cook’s head shot up.  Lizzie Borden had had been sitting at the far end of the counter skimming through a recipe book.  He hadn’t realized they’d been speaking so loud.  And, yes, it was that Lizzie Borden, who wielded her axe these days chopping vegetables and beef carcasses.  Lizzie was the most sour-dispositioned woman Vikar had ever met.  She exchanged a look with him that said loud and clear, “Don’t even think about it!”Karl hadn’t noticed Lizzie’s expression.  Instead, he was still lost in childhood memories.  “The excitement, that’s what I remember most. The anticipation of Christmas was almost as special as Christmas itself.”  He shrugged as if helpless to explain it all.Actually, he’d done a pretty good job, not of convincing Vikar that he should go all out with Christmas madness as Alex’s plan would surely be, but showing a more simple view of the holiday.  “Is the farm still there?”Karl nodded.  “I’ve not been permitted to make myself visible to any of my family, especially while Sally was still alive.”  He bit his bottom lip for a long moment before going on.  “Mom died a long time ago, but my Dad is still alive.  Finally retired at eighty-nine.  My little brother Erik works the land now.  Quite a prosperous operation these days.”  He laughed.  “I say little, but Erik is fifty-eight now, and has not just grandchildren, but one great-granddaughter.”Just then, Vikar heard the loud bang, bang, bang of little feet stomping down the uncarpeted back stairs.  Laughing (Was there anything sweeter than the sound of a child laughing?), excited chatter (Do children know how to talk below a shout?), shrieking “I’m first, I’m first.”Gunnora rushed through the doorway of the servant’s staircase, shoving her brother aside with a swing of her tiny hip.  Her blonde braids were half undone and she had a dirt smudge on her freckled nose.  “Papa, look what I found in the attic.”  She was carrying a wooden soldier nutcracker almost a tall as she was.  “Gimme a nut, Lizzie,” she ordered.“I’ll give you a nut, you little tyrant,” Lizzie muttered and went back to reading her recipe book.Close behind Nora was her twin Gunnar who carefully held a wooden stable inside of which Vikar could see what appeared to be painted wood Nativity figures.  Gun put it on the floor and began to arrange the little statues of the Holy Family and animals.  “I need some straw,” he said to himself.  “Betcha that Amish man at the farmers’ market has some.”
And then there was Alex, his wife, who could still make his heart leap (and other body parts), despite their being married three years now.  “Honey, wait ‘til you see what I found for you,” she said, placing a dust-covered box on the counter in front of him.Uh-oh.  There is that “honey” again.  Best I raise my shield and prepare for battle. Gun and Nora were jumping up and down with excitement.  Open it, Papa.  Open it.”  And the gleam in Alex’s eyes was much like that of a Norseman just home from a long trip a-Viking, offering some treasure or other to a loved one.  Maybe she was not asking another favor of him, but granting one.  He would be open minded.“Thank you, love,” he said graciously.But then he saw what was inside and thought, Screw open-minded.He said, “Holy shit!” before he could catch himself.  Alex did not like him to use foul language in front of the children.  But this required a “Holy shit!” if anything ever did.  Inside the box, was a moth-holed, old-fashioned Santa suit, with a black leather belt, big boots, and a ridiculous peaked cap.Just then, Nora let out a little squeal and set aside the nutcracker.  Running over to the window facing the back courtyard, she said, “It’s snowing!  It’s snowing!”And Gun said, “Maybe we can make a snowman, just like Frosty.”And Alex, who was tone deaf or close to it, burst out into song, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”And Karl said, “I’m outta here.”“Can I come with you?” Vikar asked.“Hell, no, Mister Scrooge!”Once Karl was gone and the children had gone off with a grumbling Lizzie to find some coal and carrots and a cap for Frosty, he and Alex were alone.  He glanced pointedly at the open box and said, “Surely, you don’t expect me to…come on, Alex, sweetling…Santa with fangs?  Ha, ha, ha.”
She didn’t laugh.  Instead, she gave him that little secret Mona Lisa smile…and, yes, he had met the model for the Mona Lisa painting one time and knew exactly why she had been smiling.  “Honey,” Alex purred.Beware of women who purr.  “No, no, no!” he said.  And he continued to insist, “No, no, no,”  until Alex yawned and mentioned taking a little nap. He did so enjoy afternoon “naps” with his wife. Still, he protested, “A Viking Santa?”Somehow Alex managed to hop up onto his lap, straddling his hips.  With arms looped around his neck, she said, “Please?”“I will be the laughingstock of Vikings throughout this world and the other,” he said on a groan of surrender.Oddly, he found that he no longer cared.

                                                *****
About the Author:
Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.
She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of four sons.
https://www.sandrahill.net/
https://www.facebook.com/SandraHillAuthor
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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/177305.Sandra_Hill

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Spotlight and Giveaway Laying Low in Paradise by Kristy K. James

Laying Low in ParadiseThe Casteloria SeriesBook OneKristy K. James
Genre:  Romance
ASIN:  B00CNK49JS
Number of pages:  191Word Count: 56,661
Cover Artist:  Vila Design
Book Description:
He's hiding out because someone wants him dead...
Cameron Rafferty is keeping secrets. Dangerous secrets that could endanger the lives of everyone around him. His plan was simple...keep a low profile until the would-be-killer was found. And it was working - until an accident changed everything. Before he knows it, he finds himself becoming more involved with the family next door, and wishing for things he shouldn't. Things that will put their lives in jeopardy, too.
Her summer plans didn't include secrets and danger...
Spending summers on Bois Blanc Island was a tradition for author Laura Keane and her young son. Filled with special memories of the husband she'd lost to war, she looked forward to days of reminiscing, playing, and working on her newest novel. She didn't expect this year to be any different - but that was before their sexy neighbor came to her rescue like a knight in shining armor. Will that armor be tarnished when she finds out what he is and why he's living next door?
Available at Amazon and Smashwords

Excerpt 2Laura watched Cameron walking toward the water’s edge, wearing the brightest, loudest swimming trunks she had ever seen. He hadn’t wasted any time in changing, given the fact that they hadn’t been home a full five minutes yet. She saw him wade out to his knees, hesitate briefly, then dive head first under the water. She shivered at the thought of how cold it must be, and her lips curved in a tender smile.If only it were so easy for a woman. Instead, she knew she was going to be cleaning the chalet from top to bottom, hoping against hope that she was so exhausted by the time Sam lit the fire tonight, that holding hands with Cameron wouldn’t bother her at all.“Yeah, right,” she thought, shaking her head as she watched him swimming hard along the coastline. “And the man in the moon is going to float down and deliver some cream cheese, too.”“What?” Sam asked, walking into the living room. “I didn’t know you were back.” His gaze followed hers, and his chin dropped a little. “Is that Mr. Rafferty?”“Yes.”“Why is he swimming without a wetsuit? Man that water is cold.”“Maybe it’s a guy thing. We saw a few of them swimming on our way back to the island. Maybe he wants to prove to himself that he’s as tough as those younger guys are.” It could have been the truth. They had seen some guys swimming without suits. And he could have been trying to act young and stupid, but he wasn’t.“I think I’ll head out to the beach. In case he winds up needing some help.”“You do that. I think I’m going to wash the windows today.”Sam looked at her, brows raised, and reached for the handle on the French door. He paused, looked out at Cameron, then back at her.Laura knew the exact moment when he put two and two together. As a look of pure disgust crossed his face, she wished for the non-existent hole to open up and swallow her.“Ew! That’s just wrong. You guys are way too old to be thinking about stuff like that,” he muttered, hurrying outside and slamming the door behind him.
Turning quickly, in case he looked back at her, Laura laughed uproariously. Too old? So not.
About the Author: 
Kristy K. James' first goal in life was to work in law enforcement, until the night she called the police to check out a scary noise in her yard. Realizing that she might someday have to investigate scary noises in yards just as dark as hers if she continued on that path, she turned to her other favorite love...writing. Since then her days have been filled with being a mom and reluctant zookeeper (7 pets), creating stories, and looking for trouble in her kitchen.
http://kristykjames.net/
https://twitter.com/KristyKJames
https://www.facebook.com/kristykjames
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5051855.Kristy_K_James

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Guest Blog and Giveaway with Angela Roquet

Perks of the Day Job


I love writing. Even if I never made any money from it, I don’t think I could ever not write. This month marks five years since I first published. And while I do actually make more from my writing than my day job these days, I’ve kept my day job for various reasons.
1) It’s only part-time.2) It’s safety blanket income.3) I’m good at it.
It’s come to my attention that I don’t talk a lot about my day job. As a freelance graphic designer, my job description isn’t that simple to nail down. Also, it’s something I’ve done for so long, I feel like it’s just part of who I am. Many of my readers already know that I designed my book covers, and some know that I also design a monthly real estate guide book, but that’s really just the tip of it.
The first freelance job I remember taking on was at the age of sixteen. A local a cappella group was planning a show and needed posters and programs designed for the event. One of the singers worked with my mother, so she knew that I was enrolled in a graphic design vo-tech class. The project was a lot of fun, and I remember being so amazed that I could actually make money doing something I loved.
I never put much effort into soliciting freelance jobs, and I almost always had other work: grocery store stocker, movie theater attendant, bartender, real estate agent. For the longest time, graphic design was just supplemental income. Word-of-mouth eventually sent more and more projects my way. I’ve designed everything from business logos to billboards, vinyl yard signs to websites. I’ve even done video editing for YouTube channels. For the past five years I’ve been designing real estate guide books, on top of writing novels.
As an indie author, the graphic design skills have been a lifesaver. I’m not only able to design my own book covers, but my own website, bookmarks, banners, author swag and merchandise. It’s also come in handy when inventing the world of Lana Harvey. Limbo City is an interesting place, full of interesting people. And these people have set up shop. Allow me a moment to be cheesy and melodramatic as I say, “My whole life has been leading up to this moment.”
Creating Limbo City was too much fun. The business names were a must, and I couldn’t help but come up with a few slogans and logos along the way. While I didn’t have much use for the logos at first, I eventually set up a Cafepress store and began printing swag items for giveaways and conventions. Here are a few of my favorites…
Reapers Inc.: Your soul is in good hands.


Purgatory Lounge: One Hell of a Good Time!


Athena’s Boutique: Where Fashion Comes to Life

Ambrosia Ale: Nectar of the Gods (Gabriel’s booze of choice)


There are so many other businesses that I’d like to expand on with slogans and logos. In a fictional world, the possibilities are endless! Being able to use my day job skills to design book covers was kind of predictable, but taking it to this level was an unexpected surprise and a whole new world of fun!
So tell me, fellow bookworms, what businesses from Limbo City would you most like to see brought to life on merchandise and swag?

Urban fantasy author Angela Roquet lives in Missouri with her husband and son. When she's not swearing at the keyboard, she enjoys painting, goofing off with her family and friends, and reading books that raise eyebrows. GRAVEYARD SHIFT, the first novel in Angela's Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc. series, is now available for FREE on Kindle, Nook, Smashwords, and more. You can find Angela online at www.angelaroquet.com




PsychopompLana Harvey, Reapers Inc.Book FourAngela Roquet
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Date of Publication: October 14, 2014
ISBN-13: 978-1502721488ISBN-10: 1502721481ASIN: B00NQDQB0Q
Number of pages: 300Word Count: 63,000
Cover Artist: Angela Roquet
Book Description:
In war, everyone loses...
Reaper Lana Harvey is finding out the hard way. When Grim's new second in command, Jenni Fang, recruits her for a special mission, the biggest victory over the rebels is tainted by a crushing and immediate reprisal. The rebels have a new general working in the shadows of Limbo City, luring gods, reapers, demons, and souls to the dark side.
The Afterlife Council’s orders to locate the new rebel base are overshadowed by a desperate and mysterious plea from Grim to find the  abducted Greek god of sleep, Hypnos. Where Lana and Jenni find one, they hope to find the other. But some discoveries have a way of bringing one to their knees.



Available at Amazon   BN   Smashwords
Excerpt:


Caim’s ship hadn’t changed much, except for the addition of a few dozen hell spawn scaling the masts and railings of the black boat. The main deck was an overflowing mass of leathery flesh and barbed tails. A herd of satyrs paraded around the quarterdeck, puffing into wooden panpipes, while sirens and succubi danced to the haunting tune, spinning frenzied circles around splintered mast poles. The wind ripped at their hair and grazed their naked bodies, leaving chapped patches along their thighs and breasts.Caim lounged along the edge of the stern deck. His pale skin looked sickly and transparent. Despite the heat and the abundant nudity, he wore a thick, dark robe. His black wings were oily, almost sparkling in the broad daylight. Where his chin and jawline ended, the flesh peeled away, leaving the length of his neck raw and tarry. The sight of him made me cringe. I couldn’t imagine what it did to Jenni.Caim reached out to fondle a siren as she spun by, clawing at her flesh with his blackened fingertips and leaving deep cuts that quickly welled with purple blood. He cackled, flashing sharp teeth and black gums. The siren hardly spared him a gasp before falling under the spell of satyr pipes once again. She swayed and rubbed against a succubus, smearing the forgotten blood until they were both coated. A leathery winged demon dipped down to steal a taste with his forked tongue.Gabriel’s grip under my arms tightened. “This is a terrible idea.” He grunted under the weight of me and my axe. The paint on his wings probably wasn’t helping either. One slid up my arm and I hissed from the roughness of it.“I agree, but it’s a little late to turn back now.” My heart accelerated in my chest as I scanned the ship, desperately searching for an opening. It was looking more and more like a crash landing would be our only option. A few seconds later, Maalik rounded the stern with Jenni in tow. It had been a smart move putting me with Gabriel. Maalik would have never dropped me on Caim’s ship, and the plan would have been shot all to hell. He glanced across the chaos to find Gabriel and me, and I could tell that I was still getting top billing on his worry list. I could live with that today I decided, taking in the scene unfolding beneath us.Gabriel sucked in a tight breath. “Show time.” Then he dropped me on a pile of napping hellcats on the forecastle deck.

About the Author:
Urban fantasy author Angela Roquet is a great big weirdo. She collects Danger Girl comic books, owls, skulls, and random craft supplies. Her obsessions include the Wizard of Oz, over-sweetened coffee, and all things Joss Whedon. She's a fan of renewable energy, marriage equality, and religious tolerance. As long as whatever you're doing isn't hurting anyone, she's a fan of you, too.
Angela lives in Sedalia, Missouri with her husband and son. When she's not swearing at the keyboard, she enjoys painting, goofing off with her family and friends, and reading books that raise eyebrows. GRAVEYARD SHIFT, the first novel in Angela's Lana Harvey, Reapers Inc. series, is now available for FREE on Kindle, Nook, & Smashwords.
You can find Angela online at www.angelaroquet.com
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Blog: http://www.angelaroquet.blogspot.com
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Guest Blog and Giveaway The MacInness Legacy Box Set by Julie and Sandy

Sisters Writing a Series About Witches Julie and Sandy Moffett
Several years ago when we decided to write a series together, it was a jump into unknown territory. Writing a sequel or a series can be daunting for any writer. But for sisters, it has its own challenges. Luckily, we survived any plotting and/or writing crises and remained closer friends. 
We did learn, however, that series require foresight, detailed planning and extensive long-term character and plot arcs. Actions, conflict and characters have to be sketched out for all the books in advance. Characters must develop, grow and change. 
But it was wonderful to see the sisters and their sexy men come to life. We were thrilled and privileged to be able to stay with our characters for three books. It was like visiting with family and friends each time.
So, with all of that in mind, we created a family. The year is 1792 and the place is colonial Salem, Massachusetts. Three sisters are separated at birth, but united by a powerful secret. Each sister has an unearthly power. Now the sisters are being drawn back to the place of their birth to fight a deadly curse. Will they be able to find each other and unite in time the same themselves and the ones they love?
We had a blast writing the series, and it was a special time for us to share as sisters. We were also thrilled when the series garnered several book nominations and awards.
Now, for the first time ever, the series is packaged together, plus we added an additional paranormal novella set in Salem featuring a young witch. 
We sincerely hope you enjoy reading the MacInness Legacy Trilogy as much as we enjoyed writing them. Be sure to offer a review or stop by our websites to let us know what you thought! 
You can buy the box set at most online retailers. Here are the links to the box set on Amazon, Nook, and Kobo.




We absolutely LOVE to chat with readers, fellow writers and fans. So, stop on by! Feel free to sign up for our very occasional newsletter at our websites.
Visit Julie at www.juliemoffett.com, @JMoffettAuthor (Twitter), FacebookVisit Sandy at www.sandymoffett.net, @SMoffettAuthor (Twitter), Facebook






The MacInness Legacy Series
In 1692, an innocent man accused of witchcraft hangs in Salem, Massachusetts. His death reignites a deadly feud between the descendants of two ancient Scottish clans—MacGow and MacInness, which leaves the MacInness clan descendants cursed. Any man who weds a MacInness is destined to an early death. The MacInnesses have one century to lift the curse and reflect it back upon Clan MacGow. One hundred years later, triplet sisters separated in childhood, are being drawn back to Salem. The have three months to refine their unearthly talents of fire, sight, and healing, and break the deadly curse…or lose the men they love forever.
The FireweaverThe MacInness LegacyBook IJulie Moffett
Genre: Historical Paranormal Romance
Publisher: True Airspeed Press, LLCDate of Publication: June 27, 2014
ASIN: B00LCS4TEMNumber of pages: 279
Cover Artist: Su Kopil
Book Description:
From best-selling author Julie Moffett comes THE FIREWEAVER, the first book in a historical paranormal romance series about sister witches written in conjunction with her own sister, Sandy Moffett.
Bridget Goodwell is the daughter of one of Salem’s most prominent Congregationalist ministers. Although Bridget is almost twenty-one years of age and long past the prime age of marriage, in three months time she will finally wed Peter Holton, a wealthy law student from a respectable family. Bridget’s future seems secure and bright. Except for the fact that Bridget is hiding a terrible secret. She is able to set things on fire by willing it so. All of her life she’s successfully hid her unnatural ability from family and friends. But just three weeks before her wedding, her secret is threatened when her childhood nemesis and first true love, Benjamin Hawkes, sails back into town with trouble on his mind.
Book Trailer: http://animoto.com/play/nG1PGQw35U1KOP6GdB2DHg
Available at Amazon   BN   iTunes  KoboExcerptThe Fireweaver:
Salem Village, Massachusetts October 31, 1692
Priscilla Mary Gardener was about to hang.
After twenty-one years of life, it would end here on Gallows Hill, not far from her home, with a rope around her neck and a suffocating black wool hood draped over her face.How ironic that death would embrace her now. Blessed with health, youth, and vibrancy, she had never given herself leave to contemplate her own demise. But during these past two weeks she had been forced to ponder death and the fragility of life. She did not want to die. Even as she stood precariously over a rickety trap door with a noose around her neck, she still dared to hope there was a possibility she might be saved.
But it was not to be.
It saddened her that not one of her neighbors or friends came forward to speak for her, to challenge the preposterous claims that had been made against her. Not one raised their voice in protest against her execution. She was alone and condemned. The thick rope weighed on her neck, chafing her skin. Her wrists were tied behind her back and rubbed raw. At first, her arms had ached fiercely, but now only a dull pain throbbed. Her legs were unbound, but she feared moving even a breadth lest the trapdoor open and hasten her demise.
Priscilla drew in a painful but steadying breath, and reflected upon her life, one that had once been blessed and good. She’d had a husband who had loved her, and a mother and father who had adored and sheltered her. As death neared, she saw that little else mattered. Breathing became more difficult beneath the hood. Cold sweat trickled down her temples and neck, causing her to shudder uncontrollably. Perhaps, if God were truly merciful, she would suffocate beneath the black hood before they ever got on with the hanging. If not, she prayed her death would be quick and clean. She had no wish to suffer a long and agonizing death while the people she had known all her life looked on, wondering, whispering.
Priscilla supposed it was almost time now. A man on the scaffold said something, but she couldn’t make out the words through the hood. She was no longer certain if she were breathing. She felt light-headed, weak, as if she had already taken leave of her body. A hand pressed into the small of her back and she heard more mumbling. Then the noose tightened around her neck just as the trap door opened. Priscilla felt herself falling and then yank to a stop as pain exploded in her head. The pain passed and there was nothing but a suffocating stillness.
Was she dead?
Without warning, the chilling darkness turned to light, shocking her senses. When her vision cleared, Priscilla could see a body swaying from the gallows a short distance away, the horrid black hood still in place. It seemed so insignificant—a tiny black dot against the enormous gray-tinged skyline. Yet as she watched the body sway, she sensed something was not right. Inexplicably her sight became riveted on the black hood as if beneath the coarse, woolen fabric lay the answer to her death. Somehow she willed her spirit forward until she almost touched the hood. Her hand trembled as her fingers brushed against the coarse fabric.
Did a dead person’s hand still tremble?
Steeling herself, she yanked off the hood in one swift motion.
“John!”
Priscilla woke in terror, screaming her husband’s name. Thrashing out, she reached across the bed, seeking the warmth and comfort of his body. For a moment, poised precariously between a dream and reality, she felt her husband beside her, solid and familiar. She could even smell the oatmeal soap that had stubbornly clung to the rough but steady hands of a master carpenter.She squeezed her eyes shut and crushed a pillow to her chest, clinging to the memory and scent of him. But the tighter she clung, the looser her hold became, and his memory slipped from her grasp as did the last vestiges of her dream.

She opened her eyes, alone in the bed. A profound sorrow clutched at her heart, twisting and turning until she could bear no more.
The SeerThe MacInness LegacyBook IISandy Moffett
Genre: Historical Paranormal Romance
Publisher: True Airspeed Press, LLC
Date of Publication: July 6, 2014
ASIN: B00LLNFLAENumber of pages: 300
Cover Artist: Su Kopil
Book Description:
The Seer is the second book in The MacInness Legacy Series, written by award-winning sisters Sandy and Julie Moffett. The story garnered Sandy a Lories Award for Best New Paranormal Author.
After an innocent man accused of witchcraft hangs in 1692 Salem, his death reignites a deadly feud between the descendants of two ancient Scottish clans—MacGow and MacInness. The peaceful MacInness descendants are left tragically cursed. Any man who weds a MacInness is now destined to an early death. The MacInnesses have one century to lift the curse and reflect it back upon Clan MacGow. One hundred years later, triplet sisters separated in childhood are being drawn back to Salem. They have three months to refine their unearthly talents of fire, sight, and healing, and break the deadly curse…or lose the men they love forever.
Alexandra Gables needs no man to run her life. Educated, witty, and wealthy, she is the only child in a family with a long line of prominent scientists. Despite her gender, Alexandra intends to continue that heritage and let no man stand in her way. But her father, anxious for grandchildren, teams up with an old friend whose equally stubborn and brilliant son, Pierce Williams, has no time for a frivolous woman to slow down his life. When Alexandra is sent to Salem to help the elder Williams catalogue and sketch a scientific collection for the Royal Society of London, she has no idea that she is being dangled as marriage material for Pierce. Both are firmly determined to ignore each other, but Alexandra is drawn to Pierce’s quick wit, irresistible charm, and enviable engineering skill. However, close encounters with Pierce trigger an increase in the strange prophetic visions she has had all her life––visions that have no scientific basis or explanation. When a vision reveals the destruction of a ship Pierce designed, built, and will sail on, she must risk a deepening love for Pierce against the loss of his life and all her future dreams.
Book Trailer: http://animoto.com/play/nG1PGQw35U1KOP6GdB2DHg
Available at Amazon  BN   iTunes  Kobo  Excerpt The Seer:

Salem, Massachusetts, May 1792
“’Tis a bleak morn to be enterin’ this witchin’ town,” a grizzled sailor mumbled as he assisted a young woman into the unsteady longboat.Cold, sticky air ripe with rolling fog enveloped the seas abeam Salem, a place haunted by its persecution of witches nearly one hundred years ago. Though infamous in history, the thriving seaport now drew the educated and adventurous. Alexandra Gables, debarking the schooner Defiant, was no exception.“Surely you do not believe in such endowed humans as witches,” Alexandra countered, mildly amused that people still maintained such unenlightened beliefs. “Even Salem has professed shame for the hangings. I do recollect they offered legal apologies and restitution to families of the victims.”The sailor’s sun-hardened face, days distant from the blade of a good razor, crinkled in doubt. “Me mariner ears hear many a tale, ma’am. But no doubtin’ by me, every tale entwines a true fact. There be witches in Salem.”She nodded politely and glanced up at the Defiant, searching for signs of her tiny companion. Crimson spears of sunrise cast a reddish glow on the fog-draped schooner. A truly enchanting morning, if she allowed such a persuasion. But enchanted was not the word she chose.The ocean rolled gently beneath her feet inducing flutters in an already tentative stomach. She stepped toward the stern of the longboat thankful that the trip to shore was a brief one. She settled near the coxswain and tucked the fullness of her cotton skirt and petticoat discreetly onto her lap. Above, a covered birdcage attached to a rope descended slowly from the schooner deck. An oarsman handed over the cage and placed it beside her on the seat plank.“Wha’ creature ye ha’ in there, Mistress Gables?” the Scottish born sailor asked, puzzled by the cage. “It no’ moves like a bird.”“You are most clever, sir. ’Tis not a bird, but a creature I call Newton. He resembles the fabled companion Black Sam used to keep.”The man’s eyes widened at the pirate’s name as he took a seat facing her and set his oar. She easily noted his desire to hear more. “I see you are familiar with Black Sam’s exploits.”The deep-voiced coxswain behind her bellowed, “Aye, Mistress. Any sailor worth ’is salt has heard of ’im and ’is stormy demise.”He switched his attention to squeezing in the last of the passengers and casting off from the schooner. Not until the oars dipped cleanly into Salem Harbor and he had steered clear of the ship, did he lean toward Alexandra again. “I ne’er heard sailors speak of any animal on ’is ship.”“Not just any animal, but a small, rugged, resourceful creature,” she replied. “Tales say ’tis why Black Sam kept him. He discovered the creature when filling water casks at anchorage in Hispaniola. Some claim the two locked stares not sure who appeared more fearsome.”The coxswain and oarsman stared with curiosity at the covered cage. As though in response, Newton shifted in his cage, banging his tail against the thin metal. The men jumped, and Alexandra fought to hide her amusement. With dramatic hesitation, she lifted ever so slightly the edge of Newton’s cover.Orange-brown eyes set in a rough jumble of green scales glared out at the men. Like a true thespian, Newton inflated his scaled beard to display a row of short spikes. The men gasped and she lowered the cover.“That be a devil’s creature,” the oarsman puffed and glanced suspiciously at her fiery hair she had properly tucked beneath a hat.“’Tis simply a reptile,” she countered. “A French philosopher traveling from Cap-Haïtien gave this specimen to my father.”A sudden shift in temperature brought the discussion to a halt. A quiet foreboding made its presence known in the foggy shroud. Every rhythmic slap of the oars into the harbor brought the longboat closer to shore and deepened her building unease. She knew of no possible reason for these dark feelings. Past scientific forays with her father into the western woods of New York and the wilds of Nova Scotia had offered far more danger than this trip to Salem.Strange, but some internal voice foretold that the danger didn’t arise from bears, snakes, or Indians; it emanated from someplace far less obvious, from the very essence of Salem—or even from her own soul.
The HealerThe MacInness LegacyBook IIIJulie Moffett
Genre: Historical Paranormal Romance
Publisher: True Airspeed Press, LLCDate of Publication: July 14, 2014
ASIN: B00LU2DYAUNumber of pages: 305
Cover Artist: Su Kopil
Book Description:
From best selling, award winning author Julie Moffett comes the third book in a historical paranormal romance series about sister witches written with her sister, Sandy Moffett. This book was nominated for a PRISM and a HOLT.
One hundred years after the witch trials in 1792 Salem Massachusetts:
Gillian is the daughter of a well-known Salem physician Zachariah Saunders and his wife, Mary. Years ago Gillian’s father was accused of improper medical behavior, and the family was ostracized to the nearby town of Gloucester. There Gillian became her father’s apprentice, learning all she could about medicine, botany and the healing arts. She was frightened, but intrigued, when she discovered she had an unusual ability to heal small, wounded animals by simply touching them. Her strange ability is put to the test when a young and handsome doctor is dragged to her door near death. Gillian makes him well again, but in the process falls hopelessly in love. It is this love that returns her to Salem and brings her face to face with the mother and sisters she never knew existed. Now she must overcome her past and help her newfound family work to lift a century-old curse before it destroys the men they love.
Book Trailer: http://animoto.com/play/nG1PGQw35U1KOP6GdB2DHg
Available at Amazon  BN  iTunes Kobo

Excerpt The Healer:
Salem, MassachusettsOctober 1792
The sea lured Spencer Reeves like a siren calling to her lover.He smiled in response as his small vessel, a skiff named the Rosemary, swept atop the glossy waves, leaving Salem Harbor behind. A strong, whipping breeze blew across the water, carrying the faint scents of sea salt and cod while a brilliant orange sky encompassed the New England coast in a spectacular sunset. He took a deep breath of air, lifting his face to the wind and embracing the stinging October chill.“There’s nothing like a sail on a brisk autumn eve, is there, Spence?”Spencer turned to his friend Charles Harrington, who sat lounging back against the gunwale, his legs stretched out in front of him. “Nothing. It’s the perfect end to an otherwise long day. All too soon enough we’ll have to dock the skiff for the winter. But not yet.”Grinning, Charles pulled a small flask out of his breast pocket, popped it open, and took a long drink. He handed it to Jonathan Duttridge, the third member of their small crew, who took a deep pull and passed it to Spencer.Spencer declined. “No. Someone has to remain in full control of his faculties in order to sail us back home and not on into Gloucester.”Charles frowned. “Always the proper physician. Must you be incessantly wed to your profession?”“Only when I sail…and, of course, when I perform surgery instead of leaving it to an incompetent barber. I have no intention of going as far as Gloucester this eve.”Jonathan snorted in disapproval. “What would be wrong with a trip to Gloucester? I met a pleasant young lady there once.”“Pleasant, indeed.” Charles chortled. “Need I remind you, we were at a house of ill repute? I’m sure she’ll remember to be pleasant if you come calling again with coin.”Jonathan pursed his lips and Charles snatched the flask from him, taking another swallow. “Come on, Spence, if you refuse to partake in the spirits, then let’s see how fast this lady can go.”Rising to the challenge, Spencer adjusted the sail and angled it into the wind. The skiff picked up speed, gliding deftly across the water.As Salem became a dot on the horizon, Spencer felt the tension of the day released. He also had a long, though productive day. His father had personally commended him on the excellent sutures he had made on the tiny hand of three-year old Mary Brewer. He had correctly diagnosed and treated old Sam Forsythe for a mild case of gout. His own confidence as a physician was growing daily, as was the trust of the patients he treated while apprenticing with his father. But as his patient list and the number of people depending on him grew, Spencer found that he recently spent more time worrying about his work and less time visiting with friends and reinvigorating his body and mind. Today he had decided to ignore those needs no more. He’d sought out his friends, and now they were all reaping the rewards of a revitalizing sail.They chatted companionably until dusk deepened. Spencer slowed the skiff and had Charles lit the small lantern that sat wedged between two wooden planks at the front of the bow. The light cast ghostly shadows over the men.“Take a look at that, would you?” Jonathan pointed toward land, where a few scattered lights blinked along the shoreline.“It looks like a cottage.” Charles came to stand beside Jonathan. “How far are we from Gloucester?”“A good distance yet.” Spencer squinted. “It’s rather peculiar, but the structure seems to be neither in Salem or in Gloucester, but somewhere in between.”“How odd,” Jonathan murmured. “I didn’t know anyone lived out this far.”“That’s because it doesn’t house human inhabitants.” Charles took a swig and laughed.Jonathan sniggered. “Then what exactly does the cottage house?”Charles waved his arm in a grand gesture, and spoke in an eerie dramatic voice. “A small, but malevolent coven of witches. Beautiful, alluring witches, but evil just the same. Spence, what do you think?”Spencer watched the dim lights wink and glow in a fascinating pattern. Someone had placed candles in the windows, as if beckoning to strangers. A chill skittered up his spine, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.“Frankly, I think we should beach Charles here. Let him visit the cottage. Maybe the witches can cure him of his unremitting obsession with women.”“Ha! No thank you, Spence. That’s one obsession I prefer not to be cured of, thank you very much. I rather think we should leave you there, Spence, so you can have a life outside your respectable but utterly tedious practice.”Spencer tipped his head. “Tedious or not, I assure you, my life is quite full. Besides, am I not partaking of some leisurely activity at this very moment? Although some might question if being with you two truly counts as leisure.”“Oh, it’s leisure all right.” Charles slid backward, his hip thudding against the hull as the skiff picked up speed from a sudden gust of wind. “Is not our company much sought after in Salem? Are we not fortunate to have a lady such as the Rosemary at our disposal?”Spencer grinned. “On the last point I shall not disagree.”“Speaking of ladies, Charles.” Jonathan swiped the flask from Charles’ grasp. “What’s this I hear about you being caught with your hands up Anna Wendall’s skirts?”“It was an accident, I swear.” Charles lifted his hands innocently. “We were taking a stroll when she tripped and toppled into my arms. Her considerable weight caught me off-balance and we both fell to the ground. In my haste to help her up, I became entangled in her skirts. It’s not my fault her derrière was exposed to several passersby. I’ve been told it was quite a spectacle.”“Her derrière, or your hands extracting themselves from her considerable flesh?” Spencer asked dryly.“Very amusing.” Charles pressed his hand in an exaggerated fashion against his chest. “You wound me by disparaging my honorable intentions toward Mistress Wendall.”Jonathan chuckled. “That’s a damn fine accounting of what happened, Charles, and I’d stand by it, if I were you. Especially when word of the unfortunate incident reaches her father. After all, most of Salem knows that you are constantly on the lookout for dastardly ways to take a quick peek beneath the skirts of any young lady.”They all laughed and further debated the finer points of Anna Wendall’s derrière until an abrupt gust of wind caused the boat to lurch to one side. Concerned with the boom swinging, Spencer yelled, “Watch your heads.“A storm seems to be brewing.” The wind whipped against the sail. “Where in the hell did it come from? We’d better head back to Salem.” He worked the tiller and sail as the vessel began to roll drunkenly from side to side.“Would it not be more prudent to go on to Gloucester?” Charles yelled over the howl of the wind.“If my calculations are correct, we are still about halfway between each town.” Spencer slid two steps to his left. “The storm seems to be coming out of the north from Gloucester. If we head back for Salem, perhaps we can outrun it.”A jagged flash of lightning lit up the sky, leaving a trail of crackling sparks in its wake. Thunder boomed around them as the sky opened up and rain poured down in untamed fury. His view of the shore and horizon rapidly diminished.Spencer clung to the wood rail, his skin tingling, his breath coming in shallow, fast gasps. “We have to put her into the waves or she’ll capsize. Help me get her hard aport.”Charles and Jonathan scrambled to aid him, but a wave crashed into the craft, slamming Charles’ head into the boom. He nearly slid overboard, but Spencer dragged him back by the collar of his shirt and dumped him on the deck. Charles sat up, rubbing his skull. Thunder boomed again, this time so violently that even the skiff shuddered.“Hell and damnation!”They brought down the sail and Spencer fought with the tiller. His fingers slipped on the wood, and he narrowed his eyes against the onslaught of blinding rain. Spencer knew they were in imminent danger of capsizing.Jonathan screamed. “Look out!”Spencer glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the enormous wall of water coming toward them. The wave slammed into them, crushing the boat like a toy. The skiff disintegrated beneath his feet, and the water reached up and yanked him under the white foam.With barely a gulp of air in his lungs, Spencer flailed about, kicking hard against the undertow that threatened to drag him to his death. His right leg tangled in a rope, twisting his ankle and slamming it against something hard. Hot pain shot up from his foot along the right side of his body. In a moment of startling clarity, Spencer realized he was on the brink of death.His last thought before blackness enveloped him was not one of despair, but one of hope that at least his friends would make it to safety.

BewitchingSalem’s Academy for LadiesSandy Moffett
Genre: Historical paranormal romance
Publisher: True Airspeed Press, LLCDate of Publication: August 5, 2014
ASIN: B00MGYX1GSNumber of pages: 108
Cover Artist: Su Kopil
Book Description:
Multi-award winning author Sandy Moffett brings to life historical Salem in this first novella of a series.
The Salem witch trials may be a hundred years past, but Constance Sedgewick and her two aunts run Salem’s Academy for Young Ladies, where any rumor of strange occurrences could ruin their excellent reputation. So when pictures start falling off walls, dishware unexplainably cracks, and odd things start to happen, Constance discovers her strong, arcane powers are taking on a life of their own. When her aunts share the cause, Constance isn’t sure she can withstand the cure.
Book Trailer: http://animoto.com/play/nG1PGQw35U1KOP6GdB2DHg
Available at Amazon  BN  iTunes  Kobo


Excerpt Bewitching:
Salem, Massachusetts 1790
Constance Sedgewick stood in the front hall of Salem’s Academy for Young Ladies considering the repercussions if she summarily changed Phoebe’s mother into a mute.“Phoebe has no need for learning numbers,” the woman huffed. “Such foolish knowledge wastes her precious time.”Constance crossed her arms. “On the contrary, I have not found it so.”“Humph, why, you haven’t even been able to secure a husband.”A fiery ire rose from within and might well have exploded forth had a crashing thud not sounded down the hall. Constance whirled to see the damaged portrait of her father lying askew on the floor. The air sizzled with magic. Aunt Gwendolyn, blessed with frequently erratic spells, must have overheard the unkind comment.Constance, doing her best to control her true emotions, drew a long breath and turned back to Phoebe’s mother.“I do recall your family operates the English Goods store. Have you ever considered, heaven forbid, what would happen if your husband should become incapacitated? Who would calculate the shop finances?”The woman straightened proudly. “My son will run the business someday.”“Your son is barely nine years of age. What if this sad event happened tomorrow?”“How dare you suggest such a thing.”Constance gently put a hand on the woman’s arm and guided her to the front door. “Think of Phoebe’s knowledge as insurance in times of difficulty. Do you wish a sharper to steal your business blind because you lack knowledge of numbers?”The woman, apparently recognizing the attempt to remove her from the manor house, firmly planted herself across the threshold. “I see the merit in your point, but she must be prepared for society and a proper husband. Attention is required in social skills, music, and the arts. Could you not allow her to concentrate more on those talents?”“We treat all our young ladies equally. And I do believe my aunts do an admirable job of teaching the arts and personal etiquette. We produce well-rounded young ladies here. But if you think Phoebe will be better served at another establishment, I will gladly assist with her transfer.”Phoebe’s mother grew pale. “But there are no others in town with your reputation.”“Then, we shall be pleased to keep her as a student. You must understand, though, we are quite set in giving our young ladies a thorough education.”Constance stepped away from the woman and took hold of the sturdy wooden door. While smiling pleasantly, she slowly moved her hand, hidden behind the door, in a shooing motion.“I must get back to my students. If you have any further concerns, feel free to return after lessons today.” She swung the door shut as Phoebe’s mother stood with a surprised and puzzled expression.The poor woman probably wondered how she had moved the few feet from the threshold onto the porch. Constance giggled at the image. Oh, the small pleasures of witchcraft. On occasion it posed a great burden, but other times proved a blessing.


About Julie Moffett:
Julie Moffett is the award-winning author of fourteen published novels in the genres of historical, paranormal fantasy, and time travel romances, and action/adventure mysteries.
She grew up as a military brat (Air Force) and has traveled extensively. Her more exciting exploits include attending Kubasaki High School in Okinawa, Japan, backpacking around Europe and Scandinavia for several months, a year-long college graduate study in Warsaw, Poland and a wonderful trip to Scotland and Ireland where she fell in love with castles, kilts and brogues.
Julie has a B.A. in Political Science and Russian Language from Colorado College, a M.A. in International Affairs from George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and is nearly finished with her M.Ed from Liberty University in Virginia. Able to speak Russian and Polish, she worked as a journalist for the international radio station, Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty in Washington, D.C. for eleven years, publishing hundreds of articles. She now works as a proposal writer and research advisor for a defense contractor in the Washington, D.C. area.
Julie is a single mom with two sons, who keep her quite busy. She belongs to Romance Writers of America and Washington Romance Writers where she served six years on the organization’s Board of Directors. She was also the Market News Columnist and Feature’s Editor for the organization’s monthly newsletter, Update, for eleven years.
Website: www.juliemoffett.com
Twitter: @JMoffettAuthor
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Julie-Moffett-Author/123804877633091
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/190485.Julie_Moffett
Instagram:  http://instagram.com/julie_moffett
Pinterest:  http://www.pinterest.com/JMoffettAuthor/
About Sandy Moffett: 
I write fast-paced stories full of adventure, unique characters, mystery and suspense. I've published two novels with Kensington Publishing Corporation and have placed and won writing contests as both a published and unpublished author (ex. National Reader’s Choice finalist (published), RWA Golden Heart (finalist). I am a member of Mystery Writers of America and several national and local writing organizations.
I'm a hydrogeologist by training with an M.S. in geological sciences and have taken additional engineering graduate coursework. I've taught at a university, worked on a project for the Air Force Flight Test Center, worked as a design engineer for a civil engineering firm, and have done computer modeling and field studies as a hydrogeologic consultant. I've studied in England and Italy, traveled to South Africa, Egypt, and South America, and still travel to places of interest all over the world so I can make my stories richer.
Website (writing as Sandy Parks):  http://www.sandyparksauthor.com/
Twitter: @SMoffettAuthor
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sandy-Moffett-Author/1474954889405428
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1117846.Sandy_Moffett

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