D.E. Haggerty's Blog, page 29
November 21, 2017
Cover Reveal of #historicalromance My Sister’s Intended from Rachael Anderson #Giveaway
Coming Spring 2018
My Sister’s Intended by Rachael Anderson
For as long as Prudence can remember, it has been understood that her sister will one day wed the eldest son of their nearest neighbor. Such an alliance will benefit both families and bring a great deal of joy to all parents involved.
Unfortunately, Prudence has never been able to feel as joyful. She believes her sister is mad to consider marrying a man she hardly knows, even if he will one day make her a countess. Titles and wealth shouldn’t factor into matters of the heart, and as an aspiring romance novelist, Prudence cannot fathom how anyone could even think of settling for less than love. She certainly wouldn’t, and she doesn’t want her sister to either.
Unable to stand by and do nothing, Prudence sets out to help the awkward couple discover the best in each other with the hope that they will eventually find love. What she neglected to foresee, however, was that she might fall in love with Lord Knave herself.
Author Rachael Anderson
A USA Today bestselling author, Rachael Anderson is the mother of four and is pretty good at breaking up fights, or at least sending guilty parties to their rooms. She can’t sing, doesn’t dance, and despises tragedies. But she recently figured out how yeast works and can now make homemade bread, which she is really good at eating.
$25 Amazon Gift Card or Paypal Cash Giveaway
Ends 12/17/17
Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader and sponsored by the author. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.
Read an excerpt of Thicker than Blood #contemporaryromance from @AnneMarieCitro #giveaway
Contemporary Romance
Date Published: May 1, 2017
Every paramedic’s worst nightmare is to arrive at the scene of a horrific accident and find out that the victim is someone they love. Or, in Caden Ross’s case, the woman he used to love. It took two years to finally get over Dakota and move on with his life, or so Caden believed, until he has to face the thought of a world without her. Nothing could have prepared the handsome, headstrong off-duty paramedic for the emotional upheaval of keeping the woman he once thought would be his forever alive.
Dakota Martineau appeared to have the world in the palm of her hand. She is beautiful, kind, has an adoring family, including her best friend and identical twin sister. She has a passion for incorporating her love of life, family, and her cultural background into her dream job with special needs kids. Then, in a life-altering crash, she discovers just how fragile life is. Thankful to be surrounded by an incredible group of friends who will help heal, not just her body, but also her soul, she knows she should be happy she is alive and on the mend, but Dakota is still tormented by the loss of her one true love.
How can you feel safe with the one person who hurt you the most? What road will Caden and Dakota take when they discover fate wreaked havoc on everything they thought was true?
~ Grab a copy! ~
Amazon ~ Barnes and Noble ~ Kobo ~ iBooks
~ Excerpt ~
“Hello?”
When no one answered, he pulled the phone back to make sure the connection hadn’t failed.
“Hello?” he asked again.
Dakota regretted calling the second she heard his voice. It was the middle of the night, and he was in bed with his girlfriend. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. She had to say something, though, since she had woken up the poor guy. It was now or never.
Ever so softly, Caden heard, “C-Caden?” It took him a minute to register that it was Dakota.
His stomach dropped. Something was wrong.
“Dakota? Sweetheart, are you okay?” He patiently waited for her to say something as he walked through the living room to the sliding doors and out to the balcony. It was freezing outside, but he didn’t want to risk waking Sasha up by grabbing a sweatshirt.
Struggling, she stuttered, “Yes, I’m s-sorry. I sh-shouldn’t have c-called. I d-didn’t mean to w-wake you.”
Feeling panicked that she would end the call, he said, “Dakota, please don’t hang up. Talk to me. I’m here. I’m listening. You must have called for a reason.”
As he ran his free hand over his face, Caden heard her hiccup. She was crying.
Dakota was breaking his heart, but he had promised himself and Sasha that he would try to work things out between them. What the hell was he doing?
But this was Dakota, and she sounded so lost and scared. It had to be important if she was calling him, especially at two a.m.
“Sweetheart, take your time and tell me why you called.”
Dakota couldn’t tell him why she really called. She couldn’t admit it was because she was still in love with him and wanted him to chase away all her fears.
“I-I n-needed to hear y-your voice and t-tell you th-thank you for s-saving my life.” She hiccupped again, trying to cover her quiet sobs.
“His heart plummeted even further. “Aw, Dakota you never have to thank me. I’m just so thankful fate intervened and I was travelling down that road at the exact time you needed me. How are you doing? Your voice sounds amazing. Francesca told me you were making great progress. I’m very impressed. How are you feeling?”
She was filled with delight knowing he was sincerely impressed with her progress. She wanted to fill him in on everything she had accomplished and how hard she had worked.”
“I am up and w-walking again. W-well, not what everyone w-would consider w-walking, but I’m up.”
He could picture her face tight with concentration as she took those first steps and the smile that must have followed.
“C-Caden …?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. I was just envisioning you up and about. Take your time; tell me what other strides you’ve made.”
“N-nothing. Just … th-thank you and t-take c-care.” It would be so easy to talk to him for hours, but this had been a mistake. She shouldn’t have called. It hurt too much to love someone you couldn’t have. For her own sanity, she had to end this now.
“Dakota? Dakota, are you there?” Caden pulled the phone away and looked at it. She had hung up.”
~ About the Author ~
Anne Marie Citro grew born and raised in the greater Toronto area of Ontario, Canada. She grew up in a large, loving family. Anne Marie is married to a very patient man. He is the love of her life. They have four very cool sons, and the girls they brought into their family that have become daughters of her heart. She has been blessed enough to finally have a beautiful granddaughter after four sons. She has her own personal gaggle of girlfriends, who enrich her life on a daily basis and make her laugh. Caesar Friday is her favourite day of the week. Caesars with the girls and date night with her hubby. She works with special-needs teenagers, that have taught her how to appreciate life and see it through gentler eyes. Anne Marie was encouraged by her husband to follow her lifelong dream to write. She loves the characters that take over imagination and haunts her dreams. She loves the arts and she has tried her hand at painting, wood sculpting, chainsaw carving, wood burning, metal and wire sculptures. Yes, her husband is a very patient man! Anne Marie is an avid reader and enjoys about three books per week. But nothing makes her happier then riding on the back of her husband’s Harley and throwing her arms out and feeling the wind race by. Anne Marie and her husband take a few weeks every year to travel to spectacular destination around the world. Anne Marie is excited and can’t wait to see what the next chapter holds for her life.
~ Stalk the author! ~
Website ~ Facebook ~ Twitter ~ Goodreads
~ Giveaway ~
a Rafflecopter giveaway
November 17, 2017
Read an excerpt of The Tell-All, a Local Point Mystery from Libby Howard #cozymystery
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Book title: The Tell All
Series: Locust Point Mystery
Author: Libby Howard
Genre: Cozy mystery
Published: 7/24/17
~ Blurb ~
Life at sixty isn’t quite what Kay Carrera expected. She’s working as a skip-tracer for a PI who is desperate to land his own reality TV show. She has a new roommate who arrived with more than the usual amount of baggage. And her attempts at knitting are less than stellar – way less than stellar. Worse, the cataract surgery that restored her sight has also delivered an unexpected and disturbing side-effect. Kay sees ghosts. And when the dead turn to her for help, she just can’t say no.
~ Grab a copy! ~
~ Excerpt ~
I’ve mourned my husband twice. Once after the accident that took away the man I’d married. The second time when the stroke took away a man that I’d grown to love—the one who, up until he died, still held random shards of his original self.
Twice. But I’d never had time to mourn the loss of myself until now. How many lives do we go through in the course of one? By my count, I’d had three so far and was beginning my fourth. This fourth, it was the one that scared me the most, the one I felt most unprepared to face. My fourth life—my new life, where there were no clear markers to help me decide my path or the course of my future.
“What do you think I can get for it?” I asked Carson. The words lodged in my throat like boulders that needed to be jackhammered before rising to the surface.
Our home. No, it was my home now. Still, the best memories I had were of when it was ours. Every beam and post held a story. They were imbedded deep into the plaster, reminding me of the past—both good and bad. I hated to sell this place.
Maybe it was for the best. The thought of remaining in this house for the rest of my life, waking every morning alone to the same walls that had seen so much…. Let someone else take my place here, meld their own experiences with the thirty-five years of our own.
Though the thought of living somewhere else was just as depressing. More so, actually. Some little apartment where I could hear the footsteps of the tenant upstairs? Escaping the past and launching myself into a new life in a tiny, inexpensive apartment wasn’t something I relished. I didn’t want to leave. I wasn’t ready. But there was a mortgage, and I was painfully aware that I couldn’t make the payments—at least not for long. With my new job, I might be able to manage a few months, but after that I’d be on the path to foreclosure. Better for me to list it now and leave with my chin up then be pried from my beloved home by sheriff’s deputies and an eviction notice—which would be even more humiliating because I knew those sheriff’s deputies. Sell. Like a butterfly emerging from my cocoon, fly free and leave it all behind. And fly away to some cheap, dingy one-bedroom that reeked of old smoke and onions.
I was about to sell my home—our home. Lord, how could I ever sell our home?
“Are you sure, Kay?”
Carson had been my friend for decades. The freelance research work that he’d thrown my way over the last ten years had kept me from losing my mind. He’d kept me sane by asking me to do property title searches as well as find copies of deeds, and other documents buried under mounds of courthouse files. Our friendship was more than just the occasional odd bit of work, though. We’d been buddies in college, but after graduation, when we’d gone on to careers and marriage, our camaraderie had turned into more of a couples friendship with dining out, wine festivals, and charity fundraisers. It was friends like Carson that I cherished—the ones who hadn’t abandoned me when I had needed their support the most. His wife, Maggie, had kept me going with casseroles while Carson had provided moral support through those dark years.
“No, I’m not sure. I don’t want to leave just yet, but I can’t afford to stay here.” I winced, hating to tell Carson the sordid details of my finances. “The insurance policy took care of the funeral and the remaining medical bills, but I can’t swing the mortgage on my salary.”
The house had once been paid off, but after the accident, we’d needed to take out a mortgage to pay the medical bills, then a second mortgage to help pay the first. Then the 401k had been gobbled up with early withdrawals. I was in so far over my head that I doubted I’d clear anything after the sale, even with Carson kindly waving his seller’s commission.
“Can you take in some roommates? One or two would cover the mortgage and give you time to think about what you want to do. I hate to see you sell this place, Kay. It’s beautiful. It’s the house you and Eli had always dreamed of having, the one you both wanted to grow old in.”
It had been our dream house—a huge three-story Victorian on a quiet street. I’d fallen in love for the second time in my life the day I saw it. The gingerbread trim, porches, thick wood baseboards and coffered ceilings—it was magical. It was also too big for two people. We’d intended to fill it with children, but life took another turn and five of the six bedrooms had remained empty. It was too big for two people, and it was definitely too big for one, but I wasn’t sure I could expose my raw emotions and precious memories to a roommate who would leave dirty dishes in the sink and muddy shoes on the foyer carpet.
“Look, I know someone who is searching for a place. It’s very hush-hush, so I don’t want to name any names unless you’re interested. He’s getting ready to go through a messy divorce and needs somewhere that doesn’t look like a bachelor pad so he can push for fifty-fifty custody.”
“Please tell me he’s not one of the people in that sex scandal?”
That would be the sort of thing that led to a messy divorce. It seemed a Madam—and I mean that with a capital ‘M’—had gotten herself arrested earlier this week. Not a big deal unless you considered that Locust Point was a tiny town. That sort of thing would have even been shocking in nearby Milford, but here in Locust Point where everyone knew everyone, it was the topic of every conversation. Caryn Swanson. Attractive, immaculately groomed, party-and-wedding-planner Caryn Swanson. What a scandal.
If having a woman you were likely to run into at the grocery store turn out to be a Madam wasn’t enough, there was the juicy speculation on who her clients were. And a Madam meant there were prostitutes. Prostitutes. In Locust Point. We were all eyeing each other, wondering who had been doing a bit of side work with Caryn. But so far the woman kept her lips tightly sealed. No named prostitutes. No incriminating black book. Just a resounding claim of innocence from her lawyer. I had no doubt those coral-pink lips would become unsealed once a plea bargain was on the table.
A Madam in Locust Point meant johns in Locust Point, and I didn’t like the idea of having a man who might have solicited prostitutes living in my house.
Carson laughed. In fact, he laughed until I thought he might pass out. “Uh, no. I’m not saying this guy is beyond having an affair—I’m not privy to the details of his divorce. But there’s no way that he’s getting his loving from prostitutes. No way.”
I was willing to take Carson’s word for it. But beyond having a morally bankrupt sex-crazed guy living with me, I had other objections. “He has kids? I’d probably be okay with the occasional overnight, but fifty-fifty custody?”
I hadn’t been around kids often in the last ten years, and really not much before that. Our friends tended to be childless, or the type who got babysitters when we all went out to eat.
“They’re not infants, Kay. His kids are teens. They’ll probably play loud music and spill chips all over their rooms, but you wouldn’t have to deal with crying babies, and at most they’d only be here half the time. This place is huge. It’s not like you don’t have the space. Plus, he’s looking for a two-year lease. It would give you money to help with the mortgage, and time to think about what you want to do.”
With the rest of my life. It was the unspoken finish to his speech. I didn’t care about loud music or snack foods. There wasn’t anything two teens could do that two hundred years of families hadn’t already done to this house. It was built for more than one person, but could I cope with sharing my home with three strangers after so many years of just Eli and me?
~ About the Author ~
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Libby Howard lives in a little house in the woods with her sons and two exuberant bloodhounds. She occasionally knits, occasionally bakes, and occasionally manages to do a load of laundry. Most of her writing is done in a bar where she can combine work with people-watching, a decent micro-brew, and a plate of Old Bay wings.
~ Stalk the author ! ~
November 15, 2017
Self-editing 101 – a primer #WriterWednesday #AmWriting #AmEditing
There is absolutely no doubt writers need to self-edit a manuscript before sending it on to their editor and beta readers. There are tons of articles out there designed to persuade self-published authors to self-edit, but how exactly does one self-edit? To be honest, with my first novel (or two or three), I re-read my manuscript, took out grammatical and spelling mistakes, et voilà! Um, no. In the meantime, I’ve developed a system – somewhat. This system expands and alters based on the novel. Obviously, I won’t be looking for historical accuracies in a contemporary romance! Here’s how I go about driving myself crazy with editing.
Naturally, like a good little writer, I let the completed manuscript sit for a few days before I begin editing. Unfortunately, I can’t let it sit too long as I’ve inevitably promised the completed manuscript to my editor soon, and there’s no way I’m providing her with a document that is – frankly – complete crap (all first drafts are complete crap).
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WARNING: Before beginning any phase of editing, ensure you have enough coffee, chocolate, snacks, wine, and beer in the house. Make especially sure you do not decide to take your coffee machine apart and then not know how to put it back together again.
First read-through. My first editing phase is the ‘Does my story work?’-phase: did the mystery resolve itself properly, was the culprit obvious, did you believe the hero when he fell in love, did I assume historical facts that are not yet known, etc. This phase is all about finding the BIG mistakes: historical inaccuracies, missing scene transitions, contradictory events, etc. Did I really just introduce so-and-so as new when we’ve already met him! Eek! During this read-through, I make an in-depth outline of the story. This is how I ensure accuracy in the timeline and story. It’s also a good cheat sheet when fact checking the novel. This read-through takes me the longest and is the most painful.
[image error]Second read-through. This is the ‘details’-phase. Before printing out my manuscript for this phase, I highlight all my ‘trouble’ words. Every author has a list of words she uses ad nauseum. Mine are: actually, really, so, just, and that. My trouble words can change depending on the perspective in which I’m writing. I keep a current list in my notebook. I allow myself more ‘trigger’ words when I write in first person as ‘normal’ people tend to overuse certain words. (I’ve been accused of overusing the word ‘awesome’.) In addition to finding alternatives for my trigger words, I watch for phases I overuse and actions I repeat. In my current novel, one of the male characters was constantly putting the heroine’s hand in the crook of his elbow. UGH! Do something else already! If I’ve made big changes in the first read-through, I pay special attention to those.
Third read-through. This is the ‘would I buy this book?’-phase. It’s time to read my novel like I’m actually a reader and not a writer. I find a comfy chair and just read. Sure, I correct tons of mistakes as well, but it’s less about the details during this round and more about seeing if it’s actually a good story – one that a stranger would not only read but pay to read.
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Half read-through. This sounds a bit strange, but I print out the second half of my manuscript and do a mini-edit. I’ve noticed I often pay tons of attention to the first fifty percent or so of my novel while editing and then my attention to detail wanes. To prevent the end of my novel from containing mistakes or reading like a choppy wave (no one wants a seasick reader), I do this mini-edit.
Final read-through. This is usually a quick read of the manuscript one last time before I hand it off to the editor. Sure, I could go through another five or ten rounds of editing, but at some point, I get manuscript fatigue and fail to see the mistakes. There’s also a chance I throw the entire document at my husband and run screaming from the room. When you hit that point, save the document and send it off to your editor with your apologies and promises of chocolate.
If you’re looking for more tips/tricks on self-editing, check out my article here.
Let your heart lead you … The Unseducible Earl #historicalromance from @Sheri_Humphreys #giveaway @GoddessFish
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The Unseducible Earl
by Sheri Humphreys
GENRE: Historical Romance
~ BLURB ~
When an earl who’s given up on love and has settled on an engagement to a darling of society falls for a Crimean War nurse, he must either forsake his love or embroil them all in scandal.
~ Excerpt ~
For a moment, she froze in the doorway. The earl stood at the sideboard dishing up his breakfast. He couldn’t have had any more than a few hours sleep, but he looked as though he felt much more rested than she did.
The country gentleman’s garb he wore this morning suited him. With his mahogany hair combed and his jaw clean-shaven, he seemed younger. Was it possible his posture grew even straighter when she entered?
He greeted her and offered a plate. “You’ve plenty of time before you’ll need to leave for the train. I believe your trunk is being packed now?”
The way he spoke, he might have been assuring a guest he regarded fondly. She almost gave a rueful laugh, but accepted the china and turned to the sideboard, very aware of his tall frame beside her.
She forced her attention to the perfectly prepared selections of food. She wasn’t particularly hungry and took a small portion of egg. After adding a slice of fried bread and asking the footman for coffee, she settled at the table. “I saw Captain Merrick before coming down. There was no one packing when I left my room.”
His plate loaded with what appeared to be a bit of everything, Cheriton sat at the end of the table, in juxtaposition to her. He frowned. “You’ve seen Jamie this morning?”
“Yes, I have.” In unison they picked up their coffee and took long sips. Victoria held the warm bowl of the cup with her fingertips, enjoying the spreading warmth.
She’d probably never see Cheriton again, and she preferred to think of him as a devoted, if injudicious, brother. Failing that, remembering him as an attractive aristocrat would be acceptable. Unfortunately, his ardent defense of his brother had caused her to regard him as a man of determination and steadfastness.
She’d acceded to his demand that she leave, digested her outrage and sorrow, and then been left with an estimation of him that she didn’t understand or want. For some unexplained reason, and despite their discord yesterday, he affected her in ways other men did not.
He made all her senses heighten. Her heart and lungs worked harder, her skin heated, and her body yearned to draw close. He radiated confidence and strength and something intangible that unsettled her and made her aware of his masculine and her feminine differences. His face might be too intense for some, but she found it compelling.
~ About the Author ~
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Sheri Humphreys used to be an Emergency Room nurse, but today applies bandages, splints, and slings to the characters of her Victorian romance novels. She loves to ignore yardwork and housework and read—usually a book every one to three days. Having conjured stories in her mind her entire life, she wondered if she were normal. Then she began putting stories to paper and became a two-time Golden Heart® finalist. She lives with a Jack Russell mix rescue, Lucy, in a small town on the central California coast.
A Hero to Hold received a prized Kirkus Star and was named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books of 2016.
~ Stalk the author! ~
~ Giveaway ~
Sheri will be awarding a copy of A Hero to Hold and $15 in Boroughs Bucks to 2 randomly drawn winners via rafflecopter during the tour.
November 13, 2017
A small town caught up in the murder of one their own, Murder in Little Shendon #murdermystery from Angela H. Richardson @seranopressone
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Title: Murder in Little Shendon
Series: The Hazlitt/Brandon Series of Murder Mystery Novels (can be read as a standalone)
Author: A.H. Richardson
Genre: Murdery Mystery
Published: Serano Press
~ Blurb ~
The Hazlitt/Brandon series of murder mystery novels follows a pair of clever, colorful and charismatic sleuths – Sir Victor Hazlitt and Beresford Brandon – as they scratch their heads searching for clues to figure out whodunit.
The first book in the series, Murder in Little Shendon, is a thriller murder mystery which takes place in a quaint little village in England after World War Two.
Picture, if you will, a picturesque village called Little Shendon, suddenly caught up in dealing with a murder of one of its citizens — not a particularly well-liked one at that. Which makes it all the more intriguing because the list of suspects becomes very long. This tantalizing tale unfolds with twists and turns to find out whodunit to Mr. Bartholomew Fynche, the murdered shopkeeper.
Fear grips the community as the investigation slowly progresses. Everyone is interviewed; everyone is suspect! From his housekeeper to Lady Armstrong and her household staff. Or could it be the shy librarian new in town? Or the defiant retired army major and his ladyfriend, the post mistress? Or perhaps the weird sisters who live on the edge of town? Then there is the couple who own the local inn and pub, along with the two Americans who are staying there? Even the vicar and his wife fall under the gloom of suspicion.
Uncertainty, wariness, and terror reign as neighbors watch neighbors to discover the evil that permeates their upturned lives. No one feels safe in this charming little village. Who is the murderer? And why was this strange uncivil man dispatched in such a seemingly civil community?
A murder mystery that will keep you reading until you learn the details, uncovered by Police Inspector Stanley Burgess and his two amateur detectives, Sir Victor Hazlitt and Beresford Brandon. The three sift methodically through the Alibis and life stories of the suspects until they uncover…
You are challenged to discover the culprit before the last few pages. And no fair looking ahead — it’s the journey that proves the most enticing.
~ Grab a copy ~
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~ Excerpt ~
A Killing in The Bygone Era
BARTHOLOMEW FYNCHE LEANED OVER HIS DESK, adjusted his pince-nez and peered down at the document on his desk. He gave a series of grunts, which culminated in a long “Hmmm”.
He scratched a brief note on the pad in front of him. He always used a pen and ink because he did not approve of ballpoint pens and regarded them as signs of an uncivilized society.
Mr. Fynche turned his attention to the small jade horse in front of him, running his fingers over it gently, almost lovingly. He frowned, took a deep breath, and removed a key from around his neck. He unlocked a drawer to his desk, placed the small statue inside and carefully locked it again.
He glanced at the French Ormolu clock on the wall before consulting his watch, and pursed his lips together in annoyance. He didn’t like people who were not punctual. Time was money, and his time was particularly precious.
The retired Mr. B. Fynche had been involved in a number of most interesting exploits in his life, not the least of which involved his extraordinary knowledge of rare documents, famous objets d’art, and rare paintings. It was rumored that he had been involved with MI5 just after the war, but no one was quite certain about this. Nowadays he puttered fairly contentedly in his antique shop, which he had named The Bygone Era.
He did the occasional appraisal for some local villagers and was occasionally persuaded to go into London (a trip he detested) to authenticate something or other for the odd client he had. He was, as far as anyone knew, unmarried, quite without family, with the exception of a sister who was rumored to live in New Zealand and a brother who was deceased.
At first glance, Fynche’s little shop seemed to be an untidy mass of bric-a-brac, consisting of small statues, framed documents, interesting looking things in glass cases, paintings of all descriptions, prints, watches, chains and… much much more. Mr. Fynche however, knew exactly where everything was, referring to it on occasion as organized clutter.
Today was Thursday, better known as early closing day when most if not all the shops in the village closed about noon, and The Bygone Era was no exception. Fynche liked to lock the doors, put up the CLOSED sign and busy himself with his latest project, and he had many of those.
The little man glanced down once again at some notes he had made. For the first time in his life, he was not quite sure how to deal with this. Probably the best policy was to be frank and explain that this was not something with which he chose to be involved. He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. Perhaps no mention of the police should be made at this juncture, for he felt instinctively that he would have to be careful here.
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie and Fynche’s eyes again darted up to the clock. He frowned, realizing that the knock was coming from the back door, which was rarely used. Thoroughly disgruntled, the old man unlatched the door.
“Come in,” he said curtly, “and see that you close the door behind you.” He paused, then growled in a surly manner, “You’re late; we need to talk.”
“I’m sorry. There was some work left to do,” answered the other. A breeze blew through the open window behind Fynche’s desk.
“Close the window, please. That wretched cleaning woman always leaves the window open, and it blows my papers all around.”
“Very well.” His visitor closed the window obediently.
“Come around to the front, where I can see you. Something quite interesting has come up and we need to talk. Clearly, decisions have to be made here. Did you hear me…?”
Fynche made a half-turn, threw up his hands defensively, and gave a smothered cry, but it was too late. The broad brass base of an Edwardian candle holder was wielded aloft and came crashing down with a sickening thud into Mr. Fynche’s skull. Blood flew everywhere, seeping into the dark wood of the desk and into some papers and puddling on to the floor.
Mr. Bartholomew Fynche, open-mouthed and eyes glazed, his hands futilely clutching at the air, slumped over the side of his chair and onto the floor… very very dead.
The visitor spent a moment or two looking around the cluttered shop, hunting for something, but then thought better of it. With a sudden gesture, the visitor pried a large gold ring from Mr. Fynche’s finger, hastily made the decision to leave and, used The Bygone Era’s back door as the avenue of escape. The door was closed quietly, and the visitor slipped out noiselessly into the anonymity of the bustling throng of last-minute shoppers in the High Street. It was a bright sunny day in late spring.
~ About the author ~
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A.H. Richardson was born in London England and is the daughter of famous pianist and composer Clive Richardson. She studied drama and acting at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. She was an actress, a musician, a painter and sculptor, and now an Author.
In addition to the Hazlitt Brandon series, she is also the author of a series of children’s chapter books, the Jorie series, which includes Jorie and the Magic Stones, Jorie and the Gold Key, and Jorie and the River of Fire.
A.H. Richardson lives happily in East Tennessee, her adopted state, and has three sons, three grandchildren, and two pugs. She speaks four languages and loves to do voiceovers. She plans on writing many more books and hopes to delight her readers further with her British twist, which all her books have.
~ Stalk the author! ~
To learn more, go to https://ahrichardson.com/
November 12, 2017
Purgatory’s Prince is missing #ParanormalRomance Dangerously Dark from @CJBurright #giveaway
Some call him Purgatory’s Missing Prince. Demon Master. Overlord of Shadows. Only one woman may call him hers.
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Dangerously Dark
The Dreamcaster Series
Book Three
C.J. Burright
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Date of Publication: 11/13/17
ISBN: 978-0-9961472-4-8
ASIN: B076PNNCR9
Number of pages: 321
Word Count: 96,065
Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde
~ Blurb ~
A master of dreams, a failure at life…
After another botched career attempt, Quinn Carmichael escapes to a remote lodge for a weekend recharge, needing respite…especially from the nightmares that haunt even her days. When a wounded, sexy-as-sin stranger faceplants unconscious on her kitchen floor, there’s something disturbingly familiar about him—as in he’s the boy from her childhood dreams. Mr. Dark, Dangerous, and Diabolical may be the key to unlocking the mysteries of her past and future, and Quinn isn’t about to let the opportunity—or him—escape without a fight.
His time is running out…
Known as Purgatory’s Missing Prince, Zaire’s existence has been one of endless pain, torture, and loss. Resigned to his fate, his final goal is simple—rescue his nephew before succumbing to the deadly darkness inside him. But when a fateful misstep brings him face-to-face with the one woman who could have saved him once upon a dream—the one woman he treasures above all else—he battles to keep his distance before he destroys her, too. But he would gladly sell his soul for just one taste.
Love draws them together, destiny will tear them apart
With ruthless enemies closing in, Quinn and Zaire must fight to save each other and those they care for before it’s too late—even if it means they’re doomed to live apart forever.
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~ Excerpt ~
Quinn tossed the note on the coffee table and wrapped one hand around the warm ceramic mug, absently petting Wolfgang with the other. Dusk took over beyond the wall of windows, made darker by the blizzard. Falling snow hid the skirting tree line. Wind howled at the house corners and turned treetops into jerking puppets. The perfect meltdown location. No phones, no people, no problem.
The lamp flickered and died, leaving her with only the dancing firelight, not that she minded. The power had lasted longer than she expected. Stoked fire, hot cider, and now she had a great excuse to procrastinate reading unhelpful flyers. She sipped her drink and wriggled back on the couch.
Wolfgang launched off her lap, kicking papers everywhere and sloshing her drink.
“Bad cat!”
He scurried into the kitchen, out of sight. A distinct thud followed, which meant Wolfgang was up to no good.
“I should’ve sent you off to the Nameless One.” Quinn shoved the remaining flyers aside and nabbed the flashlight from the end table. “You’d make an amazing hat, and there’d be enough fur left to make a stole, the perfect ensemble to compliment her plastic face.”
She flicked on the flashlight and shuffled into the kitchen, ignoring how the light made all the shadows twist and scuttle on the walls and ceiling. Broken bones might bother her, but the dark never had.
Wolfgang expectantly stood at the back door. He meowed, high and plaintive. Nothing looked out of place. Whatever had made the thud wasn’t in the kitchen. Maybe the wind had blown a loose branch against the house.
“What, you’re a snow leopard now? There’s no fancy feline feast waiting out there for you.”
Wolfgang rubbed his cheek against the doorframe, circled, and meowed again.
Thud. The entire door shook.
Quinn jumped. That was no branch. All the horror movies she loved to watch and ridicule flashed to mind, a lot less funny now. Alone in the woods. Killer storm. No electricity. No connection to the outside world.
Wolfgang’s purr rumbled, and he slid his face over the jamb again. The noise hadn’t spooked him even a little, and animals always sensed evil. Wolfgang had had no problem detecting it in Molly.
She squared her shoulders. No one would be roaming around in a blizzard. An animal had probably knocked the trashcan into the door, and a quick look would ease any worry. At the first glimpse of fur or fang—or red, glowing eyes—she’d go for the door slam.
Pushing Wolfgang back with one foot, she cracked open the door. Wind exploded in, ripping the doorknob from her grip and firing snow and ice into her eyes. The door banged into the wall, and the storm’s full force rushed inside. Quinn scrambled for the knob and stopped, frozen by more than the sudden blast of cold.
A man filled the entryway from threshold to frame, dark as the nightfall behind him. Steam drifted from his bare head. Frost coated his short, sable hair, and even in the flashlight beam, his complexion held an unhealthy blue-gray hue. One hand was anchored to the doorpost in a white-knuckled grip. The other brandished a wicked as sin knife.
She shone the light on his face, and her stomach roller-coastered. Her demon. The one who’d haunted her nightmares years ago and then abruptly bailed, never to return. No matter what face he wore, his death-black, abysmal eyes were unforgettable.
Or were her delusions returning with a vengeance?
“Get out of my way.” His chest heaved, and he lurched forward, the knife pointed at her. His guttural words erased any suspicion that he might be another hallucination. He was too present, too solid to be anything but real.
Merde. He was real.
~ About the Author ~
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C.J Burright is a native Oregonian and refuses to leave. A member of Romance Writers of America and the Fantasy, Futuristic and Paranormal special interest chapter, while she has worked for years in a law office, she chooses to avoid writing legal thrillers (for now) and instead invades the world of urban fantasy, paranormal romance, or fantasy. C.J. also has her 4th Dan Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do and believes a story isn’t complete without at least one fight scene. Her meager spare time is spent working out, refueling with mochas, gardening, gorging on Assassin’s Creed, and rooting on the Seattle Mariners…always with music. She shares life with her husband, daughter, and a devoted cat herd.
~ Stalk the author ~
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~ Giveaway ~
A $10 Amazon gift card and a Dangerously Dark prize pack.
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November 9, 2017
Read an excerpt of the #historicalwesternromance Spur of the Moment Bride from @TheAnneGreene @RABTBookTours
Historical Western Romance
Date Published: March 2017
Publisher: Forget Me Not Romances, Winged Publications
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!!
Heiress Abby Hollister’s Papa demands she stop toying with young men’s hearts and marry within a month or be disinherited. After reading an ad for a mail-order bride in untamed Laramie, Wyoming, Abby makes a list of characteristics she expects for her husband and sets off to claim the perfect mate and secure her personal fortune.
Stage coach driver, Zach Tyler likes his exciting job where he outsmarts robbers and Indians and keeps the stage running regardless of weather, break-downs, and ornery passengers. But passenger Abby Hollister proves to be an unusual challenge. He protects her on the journey to Laramie, but in that town women are as scarce as a bird’s nest in a cuckoo clock, and men go crazy when the beauty arrives seeking a husband. And Zach doesn’t know Abby’s arrived to marry him.
~ Excerpt ~
The stage driver halted his four horses with a screech of brakes and huffing of animals, their breath wafting clouds in the cool air.
The driver slammed down from his high perch to stand before her. He tipped his dusty hat. “Ma’am, are you boarding?”
Brown eyes stared at Abby Hollister above a face smothered in black whiskers.
She swished her long skirts to brush off as much of the dust as she could. “Yes, I am,” she managed before she sneezed into her handkerchief.
“Sorry about the dust. I failed to see you standing there.” He tied the two handfuls of reins he held to the hitching post. “We don’t stop here long. I’ll get this luggage loaded.” He turned toward her, long-lashed brown eyes wide. “Are these all yours?”
“Yes. I’m planning to stay in Laramie for a period of time.”
He nodded and yelled to the man riding shotgun. “Uri, catch these will ya?” He tossed her heavy bag laden with books up to the other man kneeling on the top of the coach as if her luggage weighed no more than a sack of flour.
Well, she shouldn’t stand here with her mouth hanging open. She closed her lips. None of her rejected beaus could have loaded her belongings without breaking into a sweat. He was so efficient. Well, of course, this was the man’s job, so he was accustomed to tossing heavy items to the compartment above the coach. She need not be surprised. And yet, she stood, her brain registering his strength and ability. True, he was tall and the distance wasn’t so far for him. And his mackinaw hid his build, but he must be somewhat muscular to heave her trunk up on one shoulder when Moses and Caleb had lugged it to the wagon and jimmied the big trunk aboard as if the leather box weighed as much as a steamship. How beautiful to watch the man in action. But she must not stare. T’wasn’t lady like.
“Are you ready, Miss?”
Why he wasn’t even breathing hard. “Yes, I am.”
He opened the stagecoach door for her.
She gathered up her skirts and tried to set her boot on the first high step.
He held out his hand and all but heaved her up into the coach.
She looked back down at him. “What is your name, Sir?”
He lifted dark eyebrows above dangerous-looking brown eyes. “Zach Tyler, Ma’am.”
Even his resonant voice stirred her blood. Her heart tripped faster. Blue blazes, had she been hoping to hear he was Corky Callahan? She settled herself inside the coach on the leather seat. Well, God had been known to work miracles. But usually He didn’t place the perfect man right in her path. Though after Papa’s mandate, she’d asked Him to. He could have done just that for her, knowing she’d been in somewhat a frenzy lately. Anyway, despite the dense collection of whiskers, Mr. Tyler appeared to be too good-looking.
Her future husband had to be ugly.
~ About the Author ~
ANNE GREENE’s home is in the quaint antiquing town of McKinney, Texas, just a few miles north of Dallas.
Her husband is a retired Colonel, Army Special Forces. Her little brown and white Shih Tzu, Lily Valentine, shares her writing space, curled at her feet. She has four beautiful, talented children who keep her on her toes.
She’s traveled to every location of each book she’s written, and each book is a book of her heart. Besides her first love, writing, she enjoys travel, art, sports, reading, sailing, snorkeling, movies, and way too many other things to mention. Life is good.
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November 8, 2017
Key West, a hurricane & a missing person spells #mystery in Last Call from Phyllis Smallman #excerpt @RABTBookTours
The Sherri Travis Mystery Series, Book 7
Mystery
Date Published: October 31, 2017
Down in Key West, Sherri Travis and her best friend Marley are looking for a little fun in the sun. Promising to be back for last call, Marley leaves the Rawhide Saloon with an Elvis impersonator. She doesn’t return. With Hurricane Alma turning toward Key West, and the police saying Marley must be missing for seventy-two hours before they start searching, Sherri and Lexi Divine, a six-foot tall drag queen, hunt for Marley amidst the chaos of the evacuation.
Other Books in the The Sherri Travis Mystery Series:
Margarita Nights
A Sherri Travis Mystery Book 1
Sex in a Sidecar
A Sherri Travis Mystery Book 2
A Brewski for the Old Man
A Sherri Travis Mystery Book 3
Champagne for Buzzards
A Sherri Travis Mystery Book 4
Highball Exit
A Sherri Travis Mystery Book 5
Martini Regrets
A Sherri Travis Mystery Book 6
~ Excerpt ~
Thursday, May 18th
96 hours before Hurricane Alma hits Key West
Lunging into water up to my knees, I threw myself into the canoe, tipping it wildly until it threatened to roll. The paddle cracked against the side, signaling where I was. A yell went up in the dark, “She’s here!”
Beside me, Marley screamed, “Slow down.”
I gulped air. The terrifying memory of the Everglades receded and the sun shone again, but my heart still hammered in my ears and fear still trickled sweat down my body.
“Shit, Sherri, you’re going to kill us. Pay attention!”
“I am,” I said, but she knew it wasn’t true. Terrifying images, dangerous waking nightmares, were a daily part of my life since Clay’s murder. I glanced over at Marley. She had her bare feet braced against the dash, one hand locked to the back of my seat and the other one clutching the door, ready for the crash. The freckles she hated stood out on her pale face. Trying to make light of her fears, and diminish any fault of mine, I waved at the empty road in front of us where only a mirage of heat danced on the fiery asphalt. “There’s no one but us out here. What are you afraid of?”
“Dying, you idiot.”
The speedometer was closer to one hundred than it was to ninety. I backed off a little and took a deep breath. All the crosses and plastic flowers along the road said she might have a point.
“Pull over,” she said. “I’ll drive.” I eased up a little more on the gas but I didn’t pull over.
We’d come down the west coast of Florida from Cypress Island, and now we were going east on Alligator Alley toward Miami. “You drove to Fort Myers so I drive the rest of the way. That was the deal,” I said. Ahead of us, a flamingo flew low over the road, racing us toward the Atlantic. “Relax and enjoy the scenery.” I needed to be in control. I was the only one who could deal with the disaster when it came, and my head was in a place where the only thing coming was disaster.
~ About the Author ~
Phyllis Smallman’s first novel, MARGARITA NIGHTS, won the inaugural Unhanged Arthur award from the Crime Writers of Canada after being shortlisted for the Debut Dagger in the U.K. and the Malice Domestic in the U.S.. Her writing has appeared in both Spinetingler Magazine and Omni Mystery Magazine. The Florida Writer’s Association awarded CHAMPAGNE FOR BUZZARDS a silver medal for the best mystery and her fifth book, HIGHBALL EXIT, won an IPPY award in 2013. LONG GONE MAN won the Independent Publisher’s IPPY Gold Award as best Emystery/thriller in 2014. The Sherri Travis mystery series was one of six chosen by Good Morning America for a summer read. Before turning to a life of crime, Smallman was a potter. She divides her time between a beach in Florida and an island in the Salish Sea. Visit her website at www.phyllissmallman.com
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November 7, 2017
Dive into Ancient Persia in the #actionadventure The Rat Tunnels of Isfahan #excerpt from Alejandro de Gutierre
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Book title: The Rat Tunnels of Isfahan
Series: Scorpions and Silk – Book One (can stand alone)
Author: Alejandro de Gutierre
Genre: Action-Adventure / Literary
Published: Sept 1, 2017
~ Blurb ~
A resourceful amnesiac, abiding in a brutal desert prison in Ancient Persia, tries to help his fellow inmates and struggles to stay alive. But when an opportunity for freedom manifests, matters grow worse than ever, and he must confront his deepest fears, or lose himself forever.
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~ Excerpt ~
IT JUST STOOD THERE, a living statue, of onyx along the back, and the color of desert sand in the legs and claws. Its tail, of linked amber blocks with the aspect of unpolished jewels, tapered and grew darker along its length to the last segment, which glowed dull red as if it held a ruby inside.
It looked hard, its shell unbreakable, its soul impenetrable. No longer than a fig, no wider than an apricot, it nevertheless might as well have been a jackal, for the way it seemed to take up all the space inside my cell, and commanded my full attention. In a senseless stupor, I felt myself actually drawn toward it – drawn by some perverse instinct to tempt Asi – Lady Fortune. Was I? I was: leaning my head and closing the distance between us by degrees, holding my breath, the scorpion’s perfect stillness pulling me closer. But I shuddered and, drawing breath, allowed my cautious nature to prevail over my morbid curiosity, and pushed myself back from the creature. Then I questioned my senses, because although I knew better, I feared that the scorpion had taken a few tiny steps in pursuit of me. Where were the guards?
The scorpion had wandered into my cell several minutes earlier, under the door perhaps, or through the narrow slit in the wall, high overhead. I didn’t see it enter; I only noticed it as it stalked to the middle of my cell. While its legs rose and fell in a coordinated haunt, its body, tail, and dangling ruby stinger seemed to glide across the ground like a leaf floating down a gentle river. Smaller than a man’s palm, with its eight legs flexed at sharp angles, it stood unmoving, its stinger poised and impossible to miss. This little khrafstra was known to all desert dwellers: the Red Scorpion of India, author of the Three-Day Death. I had to keep it in my sights, but I had to look away from it.
Shifting my gaze, looking past my unwelcome visitor, I glanced at the filthy bucket in the far corner of my cell. Behind it, I had in my possession a precious stash comprising one large rock and three small ones – for self-defense, not against the guards of course, but against other prisoners. Stones were hard to come by; the basalt walls and floor didn’t chip easily. But having them, especially a big one you could smash with, often made the difference. So I was glad to have them. And my big rock was just what I needed right then, but the capricious Lady Asi had to have her little joke; it was she who must have guided the scorpion right between me and my filthy bucket, and the precious rocks it concealed. Where were the guards?
The guards always came for us when there were clashes outside – tribal clashes, over pillaging and raiding rights along the trade route that connected Isfahan to Yazd; tribal clashes like the one that raged in the desert valley below. The horses, the chariots, the burly men and women flinging themselves at each other, laden with armor, swinging axes and swords… a pleasure to watch; our sole diversion in this forsaken, starless prison, this waiting room for death or madness.
Streaming through a narrow vertical gap carved at twice my height, a sliver of white light blasted the inner wall of my cell, telling me mid-morning had come. Where the sun hit it, the stone glowed silvery blue, while a dull, dark grey pressed in from all sides, and deep shadows haunted the corners. My cell had no bed; the filthy bucket was my chamber pot. The ceiling was high, and the cell measured seven paces by five, so there was ample room, but the tedium of staring at those stone walls from daybreak to nightfall was a yoke around the neck, fixed too tight, always squeezing the throat. On the hottest days, one struggled to draw breath. At night, the darkness in our cells was oppressive, and terror frequently set in; one heard screaming most nights.
I felt like screaming just then, my guts heaving and my chest constricting as the scorpion repositioned itself, tapping its many legs two or three times quickly and turning in a half circle. It felt as though my skin was shrinking and shriveling all over my body as the thing shifted from facing the door, to facing me directly. Was it watching me? Did it know I was watching it? I glanced away and strained to listen for the sounds of cell doors opening, or of guards in the hallways, but kept the beast in the corner of my vision. A man wailing, the sound of the wind in the hall, tribal men and women ululating outside and far below… but no guards. I looked back at my bucket. I could trap the scorpion underneath it, or I could try to smash it with my rock, but I would have to get past the scorpion first. How fast could a scorpion move? Would it beat me there? Would it attack me as I passed it? I was beaten and I knew it. I wasn’t crazy.
I WASN’T CRAZY. Not like most of the tortured souls I shared the prison with. Some wandered, muttering and bumping into walls. Some sat unmoving for hours, staring into a darkness even the desert sun couldn’t penetrate, their eyes seeing but not seeing, ears hearing but not listening. And a sad few would break; they would weep, and rock, and cry out. These were the broken: shuffling from place to place, barely eating, barely drinking, numbly watching the flesh drip from their bones, oblivious to the blood slowing in their veins.
One of these, an older prisoner called Jangi the Brave (a joke by the guards) struggled to eat on his own, and was at times prone to fits of abject fear and panic. They were cruel to this one. I used to help him eat, placing bits of food on his tongue, tilting his head back and massaging his jowls until he swallowed. Once, when I tried bringing him water in my cup, a guard who hated Jangi struck the cup from my hands and then struck me in the gut for good measure. I was refused a replacement for the cup, but when they weren’t looking, I brought Jangi water anyway, carrying it carefully in my hands. In rare, lucid moments, he told me about his life as a guard in the court of the cruel prince Shapur.
“He ordered us to beat men who were already in chains. Had us burn the feet of those he deemed his enemies, ordered us to cut out their eyes and tongues, even to scalp them. This is not the Persian way,” he said.
“However did you come to be in this place?” I asked him once.
“The prince,” he replied, speaking cautiously, searching, pausing after certain words, “declared as his enemy a small child.” His lower lip trembling, Jangi cleared his throat and continued. “The son he was, this boy, of a nomad who followed his Sheikh into battle against us.”
“What did the prince order you to do?”
“His father: killed before the boy’s eyes. The boy was no more than 5.”
“And the prince’s order…?”
Jangi only shook his head. “Not the Persian way.”
“You refused to carry out his order,” I said. He lowered his eyes and lifted one of his gnarled hands an inch or two from his lap. The hand shook as he tried to make a fist. Jangi opened his mouth to speak, but only a pinched groan issued from his throat, which I knew to mean that he was fading from his thoughts again.
The guards stopped letting me help Jangi. One day, he spat up a bit of rice, and it landed on a guard’s foot. Infuriated, the guard ordered him to be taken to the Pit for punishment – As they wrenched him from his chair, one of the guards parted the hair behind Jangi’s head, and there, on the back of his neck, was tattooed in black ink the aleph:
Gesturing at the symbol, one guard barked an order, and another produced a short knife, its folded-steel blade glinting in the bold light that streamed through the slit in the far wall. In rough, brutish strokes, the guard sheared Jangi’s white hair until only a few close-cropped patches remained. His scalp bled in several places, where the guard’s careless cutting had nicked and sliced the skin, as they dragged him out of the chamber and into a dim tunnel leading deeper into the mountain.
One of the prisoners, a devious jailer’s pet with more teeth remaining and more flesh on his bones than any other inmate, recognized my perplexity. He smiled with a contemptuous curl of the lip and said, “He is marked. You were a fool to be kind to him.” Stroking his belly, which paunched through his gleaming white jubba, the man observed me, seeming to enjoy my distress at watching Jangi being taken. I turned back to face him and he chuckled. He added, with derision and disdain driving his gravelly voice down in pitch, “He has been to the Pit once before, and they marked him that time.” My hand went to the back of my own neck. Caressing the skin there, I felt the raised bumps of my own aleph tattoo. The jailer’s pet broke into sensuous laughter.
“You also have been once to the Pit already? Then you were even more foolish to help the old, brave soldier.” Drawing a deep breath, he stepped closer to me and, his jaw trembling with delight, he pointed after Jangi and said with relish, “And now they shave him and see he is marked. So, your friend is lost – unless his hair grow back before he die from the wanting of water, no?” He cackled so that his warm, fetid breath bathed my face. “Your beloved dôst will not return from his second visit to the pit.”
He was right; I never saw Jangi after that.
~ About the author ~
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Alejandro de Gutierre is a writer living in California. His first book, THE RAT TUNNELS OF ISFAHAN, was published in Sept. 1, 2017.
Alejandro was born and raised in Tacoma, WA, and obtained a BA in English from Salem, OR’s Willamette University after a brief flirtation with Chemistry and Theater (in that order).
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