Margo Bond Collins's Blog, page 49

Spotlight On: Last Light Falling, by J. E. Plemons

YA Dystopian / Post Apocalyptic Thriller
Date Published: July 2015

Arena has left the nation’s administration with a dead president and a weakened military, and while the tragic memories continue to scar her, the government struggles to regroup without its leader. For the people who still remain in hiding, it’s evident the country is all but lost, and with Russian operatives taking over, the nation’s hope of recovering is grim.

After months in hiding, Arena and her brother, Gabriel, fight to survive the aftermath while they trudge through unkindly terrain across the country to rejoin their friends, but what they soon discover may staunch their journey. The government’s failed attempt to rebirth a broken nation has caused civil unrest like no other.

After reuniting with their friends, Arena’s decision to stay changes when she discovers the secrets of a refugee camp behind a clandestine group of rebels, known as the Southern Resistance. With an opportunity to escape to a permanent safe haven, Arena risks her life to lead the new fellowship. But the darkest days are upon them, and with a new war brewing, Arena’s path will take a dark turn as her survival is in jeopardy.

Into The Darkness captures the cruel truth behind our darkest secrets which may often cause us to question our faith. In this graphic second installment of the LAST LIGHT FALLING series, J.E. Plemons continues the grim story of Arena Power’s fate, testing her faith while she and her brother search for an answer to their survival in a brooding world filled with chaos.


EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1


In the midst of tragic suffering, we all have fallen by death in one way or another, but because of His suffering, we are given hope and a gift of eternal life. I’m still hopeful for those who still remain in this wicked world, regardless of the unleashed hell that awaits us all.

The light draws dim, and Gabe and I are forced to set camp as the sun sets behind the horizon. We find a small spot beyond a brushy field where a clump of trees stands out in the middle of nowhere. The trees are packed fairly tightly, but there is very little underbrush where we can start a fire without burning everything in sight.

“How many more days you think?” Gabe asks as he clears the ground. I brush the sweat from my eyes and gaze wearily to the east. I’m afraid Carrington won’t be the same as we left it.

“Hard to say,” I simply answer. Fact is I haven’t the slightest clue. Nothing from this landscape looks familiar to home. I lay my pack on the cool soil and rest my swords peacefully against a gnarled tree trunk.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” he caustically answers. The sun quickly sets well behind the trees, leaving the horizon to glow.

“Why don’t you get a fire started and I’ll fetch us some-thing to eat.”

While Gabe dresses the ground with kindling, I venture west, anxious to hunt. Night hunting is not my forte. With-out ample light, there’s no telling what’s lurking in the high grass that surrounds us. Although the land here offers abundant species of game birds, I fear the coyotes and bobcats

will scare them away. I kneel down in the brush and wait for something appetizing to cross my path.

It’s been long since Gabe and I have had a decent meal we haven’t had to kill ourselves—not since before all this shit happened. Myra, our foster mom, was the chef of the household. Her roasted duck, a staple on special occasions, would have your taste buds hypnotized for days. And not many people know how to cook duck properly, but she sure did. Though she is dead along with my real mom, not a day goes by without some memory of her.

It’s been twenty minutes now and not a single creature has stirred. I’ve impatiently waited too long to stay here. I trek further out toward a small thicket of live oak trees about a half-mile to the west.

About halfway to the coppice a small hare hops past my boots. I lunge to grab it, but catch a handful of dirt instead. I can’t see a damn thing out here in this nest of weeds. My only hope is to nab something in that cluster of trees up ahead. I wade through the thick brush until the sound of heavy breathing halts my pace. I rest still and for a moment the labored wheezing stops. The sounds in the dark can be misleading, but this certainly doesn’t sound friendly. The tall grass suddenly rustles, but I can’t tell in what direction it’s coming from. Whatever it is, it seems to be scurrying frantically all around. I know it’s not a coyote, because he wouldn’t be moving this much; he would cowardly wait until I made the first move. A small tree limb snaps on the ground to my left about fifteen paces. I quickly bend down and hide within the scratchy underwood. I slowly draw one of my weathered arrows and carefully place it in the string of my bow, waiting for this animal to show itself. The rustling stops and the deep croaking sound of a bullfrog echoes in the distance. That is a pleasing sound, because I know there must be water nearby and I desperately could use a drink. No frog in its right mind would hop around in this barren land without water.

It’s been too long for whatever is hiding out there not to move. Just then, my stomach decides to harmonize with that old bullfrog, growling with starvation. I’m so hungry right now, I’d eat a hot dog from a gas station, but I’m not leaving this spot until I find out what’s hiding out there.

I slowly stand up and walk toward where the raspy panting first started. The rustling in the grass continues when two pheasants fly out in front of me, trying to flee. I must have stepped near their guarded nest. A devilish squeal pierces the air, and two glowing eyes stare at me. In an instant, the tall grass begins to move toward me like a wave in the ocean. I raise my bow and pull the string back, but the arrow nock splits and falls from my hands. I quickly turn and run, hoping I won’t be mauled by what-ever is chasing me. The grass gets thicker and thicker, slowing me down, and that monstrous squeal pierces my ears.

I dart through the weeds as they slash against my thighs like stinging whips. The persisting beast moans with a hellish roar, closing in on my pace, until I finally exit the brushy pasture into a small clearing. There’s not a safe enough distance between this creature and me to look back. It’s fast whatever it is.

I alter my course toward an old oak tree in hopes I will climb far enough up its gnarled limbs for safe harbor. My sides ache from the exhausted running, and the muscle in my lower left calf gives in as I stumble hard to the ground beneath the old tree.

I quickly roll over, pull my dagger from its sheath, and unexpectedly recognize the beast’s twisted tusks driving rapidly toward me. The moonlight shines through the clouded skies and reveals an infuriated feral hog ready to tear into my flesh with vengeance. If I falter, or lose my grip on my knife, I will be at the mercy of its sharp, bristling tusks. The savage pig bows back its hairy ears and leaps, its jowls open wide exposing its razor-sharp teeth. I swing my arm forward and thrust the end of my blade into the back-side of his thick, hairy-coated neck. The hog violently flops about, squealing, not going down without a fight. I stab him again and again until the shrieking finally stops.

I lie there on the ground panting, the two-hundred-pound dead, bloody boar resting on my legs. I’m too tired to move, but the stench emitting from this fowl beast persuades me to do otherwise. Not what I was expecting to find for food, but it’s all we have, and unless a nice pheasant or squirrel decides to pleasantly drop in my lap surrendering to be eaten, it’s pork for dinner.

I push the hairy hog off my legs and pull out my knife. Before I slice into its belly, a small wooden cross near the tree catches my eye. It leans to the side, sitting atop a pile of rocks. It reminds me too much of my uncle Finnegan’s burial that I can’t seem to peel my eyes from it.

Six months have passed since Gabe and I left Finnegan’s grave, and yet I still haven’t forgiven myself for his careless death. If he hadn’t shielded me from the soldier’s bullet at the training facility, I would be the one lying in that grave right now. But my raging hatred for General Iakov caused more pain and misery to our fellowship, and it got Finnegan killed. Though Iakov has fallen with his sol-diers in the facility, leaving a heavy stain on this new administration, it has broken a part of me I can’t get back.

I feel less convinced of the path God has led me on with every step I take in this dark depraved place. If it is my des-tiny to help wipe evil from this world, it’s tearing me apart, because I can feel the fragility in my faith growing now. While I wish I could go back and change things, my fate has brought me here. . . hunting in the dark for survival.

I quickly cut into the hog before the meat spoils and the blood taints our meal. There is just too much to carry back to camp, so I cut and skin what I can for the night and leave the stinky carcass for the vultures. The smell is just too repulsive to continue butchering this nasty beast, anyway. It’s beyond the depths of foul. I tie up what meat I can carry with me and wander toward the small coppice where that bullfrog was bellowing. I’m sure to find water somewhere nearby.

The exposed roots twisting along the ground like a snake suggest an underground spring feeding these lonely trees. There stands a soaring cypress tree hovering over the bank of a small running creek that effortlessly meanders with twists and turns. I follow the brook until I reach the end where it pours into a clear spring. My weary eyes widen, and my dry, parched mouth salivates over this aquatic nectar.

I dunk the canteens into the cold spring water in a less-stagnate area away from the growing moss and algae. I’m so thirsty, I couldn’t care less what’s floating in this sweet, quenching pool of goodness. As long as I don’t have to see what I’m drinking, I’m just fine. Bottoms up, I say.

The unbearable frigid temperatures of winter have finally subdued and surrendered to the fresh blooming beginnings of spring, just like this water. Unfortunately, summer has found a way to creep in, because these long hot days have been murderous. It’s nearing May, I think, but I can’t be for sure. I lost track of time long ago.

For six long miserable months, our weary legs have ambled through snowy drifts of white expanding as far as the eye can see. We have traveled through lifeless towns, abandoned farms, and fields of emptiness, but traveling by foot is our only way now. The roads are no longer safe. Our nation has changed into an ever-growing evil, and those who see it for what it really is have become a liability under harsh scrutiny.

The hundreds of miles we’ve traveled from the East Coast have worn us thin, but I feel our journey to reunite with our friends is not too far away. Texas is the only thing on my mind, and I won’t be discouraged by another day of swollen feet. We haven’t come this far just to give up.

There’s a glowing ember in the distance and I realize just how far away I am from Gabe’s warm fire. The air is starting to get a little chilly and I shiver. I make my way back to camp and find Gabe asleep on the ground in a fetal position. The egregious smell of pork smoking above the fire should wake his stomach up. Gabe has already built a spit-fire high enough above the flames to cook our meal. He’s a Boy Scout after my own heart.

I’m too hungry to wait for this meat slab to hang over the fire the next eight hours. I slice off small manageable pieces to cook, skewer them on a couple of sticks, and lay them on a rock next to the fire. I wrap the rest of meat around the long piece of hickory Gabe had used for a walking stick, and secure it with some left over wire from my pack. I carefully rest the meat above the fire to slow-cook overnight. Hell, maybe the stench will evaporate from the pores, leaving us with some nice tenderloin for breakfast.

I sit next to the crackling fire and dangle the small pieces on the wooden skewers right above the flames. The rendering fat drips from the pork causing the fire to flare up. The sizzling of the fat and crackling of the tissue begins to rouse Gabe, but I don’t think it’s the sound that has awakened him.

“Holy mother of God, what’s that smell, Arena?” Gabe says with his nosed pinched. It’s quite an uninviting smell, but I’ve been smelling and breathing it in for a while, so I guess I have gotten used to it.

“It’s our dinner,” I say.

“You’re kidding me. What are you feeding me, the inside of a pig’s ass?”

Not quite, but damn near close, I think, trying hard not to smile. Okay, I admit the smell is objectionable, but this is all I have to offer.

“Unless you have anything better to proposition, this is our meal. I suggest you take it and fill that empty stomach of yours.”

This salty meat may taste gamey, but when you are as hungry as we are, you’ll eat just about anything, and my stomach can’t wait until the morning to find something bet-ter. Sure I would like to have a nice juicy steak and baked potato, but this will just have to do. We both hold our noses from breathing in the smell of this wretched swine. I stomach what I can and try to dilute the taste with the fresh spring water.

Gabe eagerly falls back to sleep. I try to stay awake as long as I can to keep watch for any unwanted wild creature that may wander uninvited to our malodorous campsite. I’m pretty sure we have unintentionally attracted every wild beast for miles with the smoky scent of ass.

I watch Gabe sleep comfortably below the canvased trees while my stomach churns. The world seems so lonely. Gabe is all I have left right now, and I don’t think I could bear the thought of losing him too. There were times in my life when I detested my twin brother, but I never stopped loving him, and right now, I need him more than ever.

The harsh conditions we’ve experience in the last six months has forced us to both grow up, but none more than Gabe. He’s become a man before my eyes. His dirty blond hair drapes dingily below his ears and eyes. He’s still the same brother at heart, but he’s grown into something much different. Behind those skinny limbs and that frail body he used to carry, breathes courage now. We can never go back to what we were—time and history have changed, and so have we.

I want to believe there is purpose in all of this, but I’m not sure anymore what I’m supposed to do. I feel lost with-out Finnegan by my side. He was the only family Gabe and I had left, and now he too is gone. But his bravery will never be forgotten, and because it was his choice to follow my divine path, we’ve weakened a dying nation at its heart. My enemy may be dead, but my nightmares are still much alive.

I realize there is a reason for every event that happens to us, but I’m still having a difficult time accepting it. I may never fully understand my part in this world, but I will continue until I can no more. Many people left on this earth will accept their fate as meaningless acts of randomness. I believe now there is more to this world than just chaos and ruin. We were born with a plan, a purpose, and a choice. I choose to believe Finnegan saved my life to extend my fate, and I’m eternally grateful, but I wish not to endure any more hum-bling experiences through death.

Instead of sleeping on the padded dirt next to the fire, I nestle in between the roots of an old oak tree. I prop myself up against rough ridges of splitting bark and stretch out my legs. I grab Jacob’s necklace around my neck and stare down at the worn silver cross like I do every night. I rub the edges with my fingers as if it were a nervous tick. I’m afraid I will never let go. The only boy I truly loved is gone, but his death will remain very alive in my nightmares. I fight to stay awake, but my body isn’t willing to compromise. Sleep wins the battle.






About the Author

Jay Plemons’ life is nothing short of ordinary. From an aspiring chef, carpenter, educator, musician, husband, and father, nothing ever seems too busy when adding yet another hat into the mix as a fiction novelist. With a degree in music business, and a minor in English from Middle Tennessee State University, the aspirations to continue his journey in the arts, has followed Jay to write the Last Light Falling series, which has not only touched on some of his personal experiences, but has also helped him further explore the heightened convictions of faith.




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Join the Summer’s End Book Bash FB Party ~ all day on Tuesday, 9/29!

Join us for a FB party featuring over 50 authors and tons of prizes and giveaways!

The Summer’s End Book Bash started out as a Facebook celebration of my own summer 2015 releases, but grew into a full-blown bash. So join the party now, then stop by anytime on September 29, meet some authors, and enter to win!

Happy Release Day! Minotaur by Phillip W. Simpson with Giveaway

Happy Release Day to

Minotaur by Phillip W. Simpson!!

Join us in celebrating this release from Month9Books!

Enter the giveaway found at the end of the post.

Happy Book Birthday, Phillip!

“Where shall I start?” asked Minotaur.

Ovid made an expansive gesture with both hands. “Where else but the beginning of course.”

Minotaur nodded his huge head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes,” his eyes already glazing over with the weight of thousand year old memories. And then he began.

So begins the story of Asterion, later known as Minotaur, the supposed half bull creature of Greek legend. Recorded by the famous Roman poet, Ovid, Asterion tells of his boyhood in Crete under the cruel hand of his stepfather Minos, his adventures with his friend, Theseus, and his growing love for the beautiful Phaedra.And of course what really happened in the labyrinth.

This is the true story of the Minotaur.

Amazon | B&N | BAM | Chapters | Indiebound | Kobo | TBD | Google Play

When I say love, we were young, and it was largely innocent—kissing, caressing, and the like. Still heady stuff for a young man, so of course I tried to lure Phaedra away from the palace at any opportunity.

Sometimes, we would lie sheltered from the sun amongst the cyprus and oak trees, talking, kissing, and doing what other young couples in love did. They were probably the best times of my life.

On one such occasion, Phaedra and I had taken some food and a little wine I’d stolen from the kitchen and wrapped up in cloth. We set it down in a clearing amongst the trees and ate and drank our fill. I confess I’d probably drunk more wine than was good for me and was feeling more than a little bold.

We kissed. Reluctantly, I broke the embrace to ask a question that had been plaguing me.

“Why do you love me?” I asked.

Phaedra looked at me askance, her head tilting slightly to show the perfection of her jawline. I desperately wanted to kiss her again.

“Do you really need to ask such questions?” she replied, her face serious.

“Of course I do. Look at me. Look at you. Don’t you think we are an odd match?”

“Asterion, you of all people should know I don’t judge based on appearances. To me, you are the most handsome man in the world because of who you are. You are gentle and have a kind soul. That’s more important to me than looks. Besides,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “you have big muscles. Every girl likes big muscles.”

“Is that all I am to you? A slab of meat?” I tried to joke, but my tone was all wrong. I knew I half meant what I said. I was only too conscious of my massive size and, like my horns, knew it marked me as an oddity or a strange freak of nature.

Phaedra slapped me playfully. “Most of the time. Sometimes you’re able to string a sentence together that is almost intelligent.”

Phillip W. Simpson is the author of many novels, chapter books and other stories for children. His publishers include Macmillan, Penguin, Pearson, Cengage, Raintree and Oxford University Press.

He received both his undergraduate degree in Ancient History and Archaeology and his Masters (Hons) degree in Archaeology from the University of Auckland.

Before embarking on his writing career, he joined the army as an officer cadet, owned a comic shop and worked in recruitment in both the UK and Australia.

His first young adult novel, Rapture (Rapture Trilogy #1), was shortlisted for the Sir Julius Vogel Awards for best Youth novel in 2012.

He is represented by Vicki Marsdon at Wordlink literary agency.

When not writing, he works as a school teacher.

Phillip lives and writes in Auckland, New Zealand with his wife Rose, their son, Jack and their two border terriers, Whiskey and Raffles. He loves fishing, reading, movies, football (soccer) and single malt Whiskeys.

Connect with the Author: Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

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Cover Reveal: Tell (The Heckmasters, Book 3), by Allison Merritt

Tell (The Heckmasters, Book 3)

Author: Allison Merritt

ISBN13: 9781619233010

Length: 70k

Release date: March 8, 2016

Half demon, all male…one woman strong enough to love him.

Knowing the day will come when his demon blood will overcome his humanity, Tell Heckmaster has been searching for a miracle. Something, anything, to counteract the spell. So far, he’s come up empty.

Just as the town of Berner has finally found peace, Tell’s worst fears manifest. Strange, new powers are tearing at his finely honed control. Putting everyone-including the pretty seamstress he’s kept at arm’s length-in terrible danger.

Sylvie Duke has everything she needs. Everything except Tell, who doesn’t seem to own a lick of sense. His resistance only strengthens her resolve to stay by his side, driven by a nameless inner knowing that without her, all will be lost.

Reluctantly, Tell is forced to admit that the closer he is to Sylvie, the better he’s able to quell his demon. But when a cryptic warning from an old ally tips the balance, nothing-not even love-may be strong enough to protect Berner from the raging fires of hell.

Warning: Contains a woman who can handle a hatchet with as much skill as a needle, and a man whose touch can transport her to heaven. Or hell. Accidentally, of course. Readers may wish to invest in an asbestos suit. Potholders just aren’t going to cut it.

 

Add it on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26715881-tell

 

About the Author:

A love of reading inspired Allison Merritt to pursue her dream of becoming an author who writes historical, paranormal, contemporary, and fantasy romances, often combining the sub-genres. She lives in a small town in the Ozark Mountains with her husband and dogs. It’s not unusual to find her lurking in graveyards, wandering historical sites, or listening to ghost stories.

Allison graduated from College of the Ozarks in Point Lookout, Missouri with a B.A. in mass communications that’s gathering dust after it was determined that she’s better at writing fluff than hard news.

 

Social media links:

Blog – http://havenovelwilledit.blogspot.com

Facebook – http://facebook.com/allisonmwrites

Twitter – http://twitter.com/allison_merrit

Goodreads – http://goodreads.com/AllisonMWrites

Pinterest – http://www.pinterest.com/allisonmwrites/

 

Read the first book in the series: Wystan (The Heckmasters)

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22589377-wystan

Buy links:

Samhain – http://store.samhainpublishing.com/wystan-p-73651.html

Amazon – http://amzn.com/B00L501TJK

B&N – http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/wystan-allison-merritt/1119847207?ean=9781619222892

Read the second book in the series: Eban (The Heckmasters, Book 2)

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25117444-eban

Buy links:

Samhain – https://www.samhainpublishing.com/book/5394/eban

Amazon – http://amzn.com/B00QZVS0I2

B & N – http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/wystan-allison-merritt/1119847207?ean=9781619222892

 

 

 

Happy Release Day! Never Say Never, by Emily Goodwin

Title: Never Say Never

Author: Emily Goodwin

Genre: Full length, stand-alone contemporary romance

Release Date: September 28, 2015

 

Blurb

My life was full of nevers.

It was never supposed to go this way. I was never supposed to lose Mom so soon. I was never supposed to worry about making ends meet, to worry about losing the farm. I never thought I’d be working a job I hate, with a boss who was more interested in what was under my shirt than in my head. Saving neglected and abused horses had been my whole life. It was my reprieve, my sanity, my last saving grace in a cruel world. I never thought I’d grow to resent it, but I guess there is a first for everything.

Then I met him.

The Hollywood playboy. The entitled, cocky asshole that I can’t get out of my head. I never thought there could be more to him than sex appeal and an infamous reputation of loving and leaving. I never thought I’d fall for him, put my heart on the line, and risk letting him completely destroy me.

But you know what they tell you…never say never.

Buy Links:

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1R9wOzU
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1PHHjt7

Excerpt

A tear rolls down her cheek and she bites her lip, trying not to cry. Then her face breaks and her shoulders slump forward. I stand there, shaking, terrified of the raw emotion. My heart breaks for her and I rush forward, wrapping her in my arms as she sobs. It’s beautiful and it’s tragic, and in that moment, I’ve never felt anything more real.

The pain. The sorrow. Her loss. The darkness I try to hard to keep out, that I fight tooth and nail but can never fully avoid. I hold her and feel it all. It swarms around me, filling me, hurting me, opening my eyes. I realize everything I’ve done to desperately hold it together slowly chipped away at me until there was nothing left, nothing but a shell of a man with an empty heart that I never though was capable of feeling anything but hurt. A heart I thought was never worthy of a second chance, was never capable of redemption.

It’s then that I realize I never, ever want to let her go.

And it’s crazy, because I don’t know her—really know her—but there is something so intimate about holding someone as they cry. It exposes so much, and you can’t hold back as the tears fall and the sadness comes out in waves. I feel my own eyes mist over. I close them and cradle Haley close to me.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I tell her. “I promise you that.”

“Look at me,” she repeats. “Have you ever had a date end this way?”

“Our date didn’t even start,” I say. “And hey, you didn’t go crazy and shave your head, so I say you’re doing all right.”

She laughs, and her arms slowly wrap around me. Something inside me relaxes. I sit and pull her onto my lap and we stay there in silence for a few minutes. Gently, I push her hair out of her face. “Want that drink now?” She laughs again and nods.

“I need that drink now.” She stands up and wipes her eyes, smearing her makeup across her cheeks. “And really, I won’t hold it against you or call the tabloids on you if you drop me off at home and call it a night.”

Tabloids? The word is jarring. For a few minutes I was the real Aiden again…and I didn’t mind. “It’s up to you, Haley. I’m not mad or upset, so don’t worry. I don’t like seeing you sad, and if you’d like, I want to try and cheer you up.”

“I’d like that.”

I stand and drape my arm around her. “Are you hungry? I can go get the food.”

“I am. And thanks, Aiden. I…I don’t know.”

“What?” I probe.

“I’m surprised by your kindness.”

“Ouch,” I say with a chuckle. “Thanks?”

She smiles and takes a step toward the restaurant. “Hey, you can’t really blame me, can you?”

I can’t, because I’ve fooled the world—and at times, myself—about who I really am. The partying, the women, the excessive spending, and run-ins with the American law…okay, so maybe I had a reputation. “No, I can’t. But I’m glad I surprised you.”

 

About the Author

Facebook | Goodreads | Website

Emily Goodwin is the author of the twice banned dark romance, STAY, as well as over a dozen other titles. Emily writes all types of romance, from love stories set in the zombie apocalypse to contemporary romances taking place on a western horse ranch. Emily lives in Indiana with her husband, children, and many pets, including a German Shepherd named Vader. When she isn’t writing, Emily can be found riding her horses, designing and making costumes, and sitting outside with a good book.

Mystic Mayhem, by Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens

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Mystic Mayhem
A Mystic Isle Mystery

Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens

Humorous Cozy Mystery – Gemma Halliday Publishing



Melanie Hamilton is

not your average artist. She brings home the bacon by inking tattoos at New

Orleans’s Mansion at Mystic Isle, a resort in the middle of the bayou that

caters to fans of the peculiar and paranormal, but her true passion comes alive

when she volunteers restoring Katrina-ravaged landmarks. Between her day job,

her restoration work, and selling her paintings in Jackson Square, Mel’s life

is more hectic than Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. But when a guest of the

resort, a millionaire’s widow, is poisoned, and Melanie’s close friend is

arrested for the murder, things go from hectic to downright dangerous.

Mel joins forces with the resort’s delish manager, Jack Stockton, to prove her

friend’s innocence. Soon they find themselves dealing with séances, secret

passages, the ghost of the millionaire himself, gators, swamp rats, and a

sinister killer who proves that not everything is what it seems in the

Louisiana bayou.Come on along, and get your creep on.




Buy links:       Gemma

Halliday Publishing   Nook    iBooks    Kobo    Smashwords

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Book Trailer:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRca7hgX0-8


*   *

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The Inspiration

for our Mystic Isle Series

The Magic Castle in the hills above Hollywood

Boulevard is the headquarters and private clubhouse for the Academy of Magical

Arts, Inc., a worldwide organization devoted to the art of magic. Its

membership consists of magicians as well as those who just love magic. If you

ever have the chance to go there, DO. It’s mysterious, haunting, spellbinding,

and a little creepy.

The Magic Castle was the inspiration for

Mystic Isle Mysteries, our new series debuting September 15th from Gemma

Halliday Publishing. Our series takes place in the bayou near New Orleans,

Louisiana on Mystic Isle where The Mansion at Mystic Isle is now open and

taking guests. It’s a place similar to the Magic Castle only Mystic Isle is

dedicated to all that’s magical and paranormal. Its guests experience the

skills of magicians, mediums, fortunetellers, astrologers, and much more. Of

course, none of it is real—or is it?



Excerpt:

The Mansion at Mystic

Isle was where Cat and I worked. Located in Jefferson Parish across the

Mississippi from New Orleans at the edge of a bayou, the main building was an

old plantation house set among cypress trees and expansive green lawns. It had

been handed down through the Villars family for centuries. Not all that long

ago, Harry Villars, the down-on-his-luck, but no less genteel and stylish owner,

had the brilliant idea to turn his liability into an asset by repurposing the

place into a resort where folks dedicated to the supernatural and all kinds of

magic could come and get their creep on.
The Mansion was

decorated like the haunted house we’ve all seen at that theme park—you know the

one. Ours was similar—creepy organ music when you crossed the threshold, drafty

hallways, creaky doors, secret passages, even fake cobwebs. The whole shebang, chere. Harry Villars sank every cent he

had into it and crossed his fingers that the place would raise him to the ranks

of the solvent—then he hired all of us, a complete cast of soothsayers and

charlatans, to convince hotel guests the supernatural stuff that went on at The

Mansion was the real deal. But just between you, me, and the gators, it’s not.




About the Authors:
Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens, are partners in

crime—crime writing, that is. They live in the Valley of the Sun in Arizona,

awesome for eight months out of the year, an inferno the other four. They write

bloody murder, flirty romance, and wicked humor all in one package.
Website:  http://www.smithandsteffens.com
Email: smithandsteffens@cox.net
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Smith-and-Steffens/406147242823342?fref=ts
Twitter:  https://twitter.com/search?q=SmithSteffens&src=typd




Two great giveaways going on right now !!

#1 Giveaway:  http://www.smithandsteffens.com/signup.html
To celebrate the release of MYSTIC MAYHEM on September 15, Jean and Sally are giving away an

random.org.

awesome New Orleans Café du Monde basket full of goodies from the Big Easy—13

ounces of French Roast coffee, 13 ounces of Chicory Coffee, a box of their

world famous Beignet Mix, and two gorgeous Café du Monde mugs to put you in the

mood while you’re visiting Mystic Isle. Entering’s a breeze. Just go to the

ABOVE LINK between now and September 30, & sign up! Winner to be selected

via

*   *

*   *   *


#2 Giveaway:  $25

Amazon Gift Card

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Mermaids, Men, and Monsters

In Homer’s Odyssey, the enchantress Circe gives Odysseus the following advice about the sirens he must pass on his ocean journey home:

First you will come to the Sirens who enchant all who come near them. If any one unwarily draws in too close and hears the singing of the Sirens, his wife and children will never welcome him home again, for they sit in a green field and warble him to death with the sweetness of their song. There is a great heap of dead men’s bones lying all around, with the flesh still rotting off them. Therefore pass these Sirens by, and stop your men’s ears with wax that none of them may hear; but if you like you can listen yourself, for you may get the men to bind you as you stand upright on a cross-piece half way up the mast, and they must lash the rope’s ends to the mast itself, that you may have the pleasure of listening. If you beg and pray the men to unloose you, then they must bind you faster.




Originally, the sirens were depicted as winged creatures who lived on land (“in a green field”)—but eventually, they were conflated with the myth of the mermaid, the half-woman, half-fish sea  creatures, also depicted as seducing sailors into the ocean and then dragging the hapless men to their watery deaths.

In recent years, science has attempted to explain away mermaid myths, generally claiming that the sightings must be of other sea creatures. Most often, mermaid sightings are explained as actually being sightings of manatees, dugongs, or even seals, distorted by distance or water.

Despite these explanations, people continue to be fascinated by mermaids. In her article “The Monstrous Caribbean” from The Ashgate Book of Monsters and the Monstrous, Persephone Braham suggests that “Mermaids represented the seductive but atavistic internal ‘other,’ which could, perhaps, be domesticated” (36)—but the continual interest in mermaids suggests that we prefer these primal monsters remain wild, unconstrained by modern explanations.

In “Rejecting and Embracing the Monstrous in Ancient Greece and Rome,” D. Felton argues that “The Greek myths repeatedly present monsters being conquered by gods and men; the forces of order, reason, civilization, and patriarchy inevitably prevail in Greek thought” (104). Sirens and mermaids, though, ultimately suggest that some monsters can’t be tamed.

In Siren’s Kiss , Clay attempts to explain away his first sighting of Skyla:

If I hadn’t been staring at the tiny island so intently, I wouldn’t have seen her. As it was, a ripple of the water in the moonlight caught my attention first, then the quiet splash of a fish jumping—the same sound I’d heard on the Texas coast probably hundreds of times in my life.
In the next moment, though, a fin flipped up, fracturing the moonlight into a thousand dark droplets before slapping down flat against the water. A few feet away, a sleek head emerged from the sea before disappearing again, and I leaned forward, blinking and peering into the darkness.
A seal, maybe? Were there seals in the Mediterranean? I listened carefully for the distinctive bark, but heard nothing other than the traffic passing above.
There it was again. Small, rounded—and I could almost make out a face.
Was a person swimming out there?

Her kiss might save the world . . .Unless his kiss kills her first.

It’s been almost two thousand years since the mer-shifter Skyla walked the streets of Athens—not since her heart was broken by a human man and she exchanged the land and sky for the ocean depths. Ever since, she has lived in the underwater ruins of Atlantis, studying with the priestesses of the goddess Amphitrite, refining her mermaid powers and ignoring her human half.

But her studies are interrupted when she is called upon by Poseidon himself to investigate rumors that the world above is being polluted by the magic of creatures from another realm—and worse, that the ocean kingdom of the mer-people might be next.

When her arrival in modern-day Greece lead her to an American detective, Skyla realizes that the magical problem she’s been sent to research is bigger than she anticipated—and that one human’s kisses might be more dangerous to her, and her world, than she ever could have imagined.








Buy Links:

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Sirens-Kiss-Falling-Collection-Novella-ebook/dp/B0107FLODY/

Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Sirens-Kiss-Margo-Bond-Collins/dp/0692514503/

_____________________________________________

About the Author



Margo Bond Collins is the author of urban fantasy, contemporary romance, and paranormal mysteries. She lives in Texas with her daughter and several spoiled pets. Although writing fiction is her first love, she also teaches college-level English courses online. She enjoys reading romance and paranormal fiction of any genre and spends most of her free time daydreaming about heroes, monsters, cowboys, and villains, and the strong women who love them—and sometimes fight them.
_____________________________________________

Connect with Margo

Newsletter: https://confirmsubscription.com/h/d/03A21E5E161401F0
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/margobondcollins
Email: MargoBondCollins@gmail.com
Website: http://www.MargoBondCollins.net
Blog: http://www.MargoBondCollins.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MargoBondCollin  @MargoBondCollin
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Opposing the Cowboy ~ Sexy Today ~ @MySexySaturday #MySexySaturday #Saturday7 #MSSAuthors #MSS111

Welcome to this week’s My Sexy Saturday Blog Hop, where authors share snippets of their sexy best!  Be sure to check out the excerpt from Opposing the Cowboy, below, and then hop to check out the rest of the participating blogs!

“Exactly how much of a date do you think we need this to be?” Jonah’s lips brushing across her earlobe as he whispered startled a gasp out of her—and even better, distracted her from looking for Darrell.

“Um…maybe we should go.” Accepting Jonah’s suggestion might end up being more than she had bargained for.

“Or maybe we should show him what he’s missing.” With one smooth motion, Jonah lifted her half into his lap so that her back rested against his broad, strong chest. Brushing her ponytail out of his way, he ran his mouth across the nape of her neck—a light, shivery touch that wiped all other thought from her mind.

A tremor ran through him as he sat back in the seat, pulling her even closer. He might be pretending to be her date, but LeeAnn could feel the very real evidence of his arousal against her thigh.

I shouldn’t encourage him. He’s only in town because he wants to find a way to allow an oil company to tear up the land I love.

But it might be worth any trouble later if it gave her jerk ex even a moment of dismay to see her with someone else.

A wicked smile flashed across her face. “Okay. For show,” she said, then turned in his arms to kiss him.

 

Buy Links available here

 

Never trust a good kisser…

Yoga teacher LeeAnn Walker has no desire to see the unspoilt beauty of her grandmother’s ranch violated by a greedy oil company. But unless she finds the paperwork confirming she owns the mineral rights, that’s exactly what could happen. The worst part? The guy spearheading the whole mess is none other than the hot and sexy stranger LeeAnn just kissed to make her ex jealous.

Jonah Hamilton thought his day was looking up until he found out the gorgeous blonde who kissed the hell out of him is the same stubborn woman he came to town for. And she’s not too happy to find out she might be forced to allow drilling on her land.

But Jonah has a job to do, even if LeeAnn tempts him to turn his professionalism into something much more personal…

 

About the Author

Margo Bond Collins writes urban fantasy, contemporary romance, and paranormal mysteries. She lives in Texas with her daughter and several spoiled pets. Although writing fiction is her first love, she also teaches college-level English courses online. She enjoys reading romance and paranormal fiction of any genre and spends most of her free time daydreaming about heroes, monsters, cowboys, and villains, and the strong women who love them—and sometimes fight them.

 

 

Contact Margo

Newsletter: https://confirmsubscription.com/h/d/03A21E5E161401F0

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/margobondcollins

Email: MargoBondCollins@gmail.com

Website: http://www.MargoBondCollins.net

Blog: http://www.MargoBondCollins.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MargoBondCollin @MargoBondCollin

Google+: https://plus.google.com/116484555448104519902

Goodreads Author Page: http://www.goodreads.com/vampirarchy

Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/MargoBondCollins

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/mbondcollins/

Tsu: http://www.tsu.co/MargoBondCollins

 

Join the My Sexy Saturday Blog Hop!

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Spotlight On: Girl on the Run

 

Girl on the Run

by B.R. Myers

Release Date: 9/21/15

Nimbus Publishing





Summary from Goodreads:





When seventeen-year-old track and field star Jesse Collins’ dreams of a full scholarship are shattered after the sudden death of her dad, she leaves home to work as a summer camp counselor to escape the small town nosy stares…and her own secret guilt.




After a mix-up at registration, she’s put in charge of a boys’ cabin, and the head counselor, Kirk, predicts she won’t last the first two weeks. In the midst of fending off four twelve-year-old boys who are hell-bent on mortifying her and a growing attraction to Kirk, Jesse finds the inspiration to run again from an unlikely source. But getting her old life back isn’t that easy and soon Jesse will realize that a good pair of legs can take a girl far, but she’ll never outrun the truth.

Buy Links:

 Amazon US /  Amazon CAN  /  Chapters  /  Barnes and Noble

Book Trailer:

 

Excerpt:

Cool morning air hit my face. My sneakers kept count with a steady beat.

“Feet and lungs, Jesse!” Dad called out.

I pumped my arms faster, not even hearing the gravel crunch under my shoes. I wasn’t running, I was flying. I bounded through the air for a few more seconds before slowing down.

“Beat that!” I laughed between deep breaths.

But he wasn’t behind me.

“Dad?” My voice echoed through the empty park. A woodpecker knocked above my

head. I looked up, but there wasn’t a bird. Then the park melted into darkness…into

nothing.

I blinked and my bedroom came into focus. Someone knocked on my door. I pulled the covers over my head.

“Hey, Legs,” Grandma sang. “You up?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled into the pillow.

This was the worst time of the day. For a few seconds, I believed that life for the last four months had only been a dream, and that Dad was actually downstairs making breakfast.

Although Mom was the caterer, Dad owned the kitchen on weekend mornings. It was unusual to wake up and not smell bacon or hear the gurgles from the coffee maker. But that had changed, too. The familiar knot tightened my stomach. Reality packs a mean punch.

“Legs?”

“Yup.” I pushed myself up in bed and rubbed my face. Grandma’s white spiked hair

peeked around the doorframe. A big smile on her red lips made me return the expression automatically. She closed the door, then sat down on the bed and took my hand in hers.

“Oh, Legs.” She’s the only person who still calls me that without it feeling forced or

sarcastic. Her silver bangles tinkled as she traced the lines of my palm with her wrinkled finger.

“Let me guess,” I yawned, “an unexpected romance.”

“Hmm,” she frowned.

“Good or bad?”

“Shh, I’m concentrating. This is very interesting.” She turned my hand and gently

squeezed the flesh, making ridges along the side of my hand.

I knew what she was looking for. “How many kisses, Grandma?” I asked.

“More than you’ve had before, one in your very near future.”

“Someone special?” I played along.

“Someone who loves you,” she promised. Then she leaned forward and kissed my

forehead. “How was your date last night?”

I groaned. “He kept calling me Jessica.” It was an honest mistake, I guess. Not many girls are named Jesse. I was supposed to be Julia, after Julia Child, but Mom was so dopey from painkillers after she had me, Dad got to choose. He was a sportswriter who worshiped Jesse Owens, and when I paired up with track and field like peanut butter with jelly, it seemed I was fulfilling my namesake’s destiny. Even Mom, food whiz extraordinaire, was excited to have a super jock for a daughter, and once the trophies started to pile up, she finally forgave Dad.

“Looked like you made up by the end,” Grandma teased. She’d been watching through the drapes, of course.

“Never kiss anyone goodnight after they’ve eaten a tub of flavoured movie popcorn,” I told her. I could still picture him sprinkling two full packages of the fake seasoning.

“He didn’t even flinch when I warned him about the MSG.”

She nodded like she was mentally cataloguing my advice. We sat quietly, and her gaze fell on my huge duffel bag, bursting with clothes.

“Chloe said she dropped off some outfits,” I said.

She smoothed out the yellow chenille bedspread. “I put in a couple of extra things for you too,” she said. I snuck a glance at the closet, wondering if she’d found my sneakers. My doubts about leaving for the whole summer began to creep back.

“I’m worried about Mom,” I confessed.

“Of course,” Grandma said. “But your mom needs this time too. Her grief is different

from yours. She needs to go through all of his things, get rid of his clothes, organize

papers—”

“But I can help her do that!”

“No, Legs, she needs to grieve without you watching or listening.” She let me sort out

what she had said. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Didn’t I do all my real gut-wrenching crying when I was alone?

“She needs to cry, without being worried I’ll hear her,” I finally said. I hadn’t been the only one in the house pretending all these months. I drew up my knees, hugging them under the bedspread.

Grandma looked at my door as if she expected Mom to walk in on us. “Can I give you

some advice?”

My eyes flicked between the door and Grandma. “You’ve never asked before.”

Then she leaned closer and made her voice soft. “Kiss as many boys as you can.”

“Is this the same advice you gave to Mom when she was my age?”

“Of course not, you’re completely different girls.” She paused, and then brushed a stray hair away from my face. “Therefore, you get different advice.”

“Anything else I should know?”

She pursed her lips and looked to the side. “If you’re ever in a sticky situation, especially with a boy—”

“This sounds kinky.”

“—and you need a quick getaway, there are two courses of action that never fail.”

“Mace and kicking?”

“No,” she waved her hand. “Crying and talking about tampons.”

“Grandma,” I moaned. “I think you just set feminism back by thirty years.”

“It always worked for me.”

“So…kiss lots of boys. That’s your advice?”

She laughed. “Because someday you’ll be an old fool like me, and no one will want to

kiss you.”

I circled her tiny frame with my arms, inhaling her familiar scent of lavender skin cream.

She leaned back and patted my cheek. “Legs,” she said, “take this summer for you. Go

skinny dipping, curse out loud in a quiet room, eat French fries and ice cream for

breakfast…”

“That’s more your style than mine.”

“Doing things outside of your comfort zone helps you grow,” she said matter-of-factly.

But I was terrified. What if I couldn’t do it? My commitment to training and running had kept me focused. Without it I was floundering and clueless, completely lost. Maybe doing some- thing brand new wasn’t the best idea. “What if…” I started, then my voice caught in my throat.

 

What if I never feel like me again? What if I stay this loser forever? What if I ruin

everything at camp too?

“What if this is a mistake?” I finally asked.

“That’s how you learn. I didn’t get this smart from always making the right choices.

Besides,” she squeezed my hand, “the mistakes are the best stories.” She laughed and a little bit of my worry melted away. “Now get up. Scarlett O’Hara has called twice already.”

Chloe squealed so loudly, I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “So?” she giggled.

“Is the Kissing Clause a myth or did the hot lifeguard bring you back to life?”

“His name is Ben,” I reminded her. “Last year he worked as a camp counsellor, so he

gave me some advice—don’t let the kids drown. Profound, huh?”

She let out a disappointed sigh. “Another one bites the dust.”

I squirmed on the spot. “It’s me that’s the problem. I feel like I’m letting everyone

down.”

Chloe made a surprised sound. “The only one you’re letting down is Old Jesse.”

“Old Jesse?”

“Yeah, remember her?” she sassed. “That girl was always smiling and laughing, but she was a real bulldog on the track. She’s the one who never gives up.”

Bulldog on the track.

I never used to back down from a challenge. The dirtier, the better. But that girl left town four months ago and was never coming back. I was watching life from the sidelines now.

My finish line vanished the day I threw my runners in the closet.

She was quiet, then she said, “Hey, at least tell me how the kissing was.” Her tone was so hopeful it made me smile.

I wanted to tell her that I’d felt it all the way to my toes. That kissing Ben was like tasting honey over vanilla ice cream. But I couldn’t. I pictured the tiny molecules of flavored MSG sliding off of his tongue and into my mouth. The kiss could be summed up in one word—well, actually, one flavour. “Dill pickle,” I said, dully.

After promising to email Chloe regularly, Mom, Grandma, and I piled into the van.

The scenic drive through the valley was a little over two hours. There wasn’t much talking; instead we let the radio break up the silence. Soon the wooden sign announcing we had arrived at Kamp Krystal Lake came into view.

Along the winding dirt road, trees to either side gave way to expansive grounds. The area was teeming with kids. In a flash of red, one kid ran right in front of the van, then something slapped against the door.

“That little bastard threw mud at the car!” Grandma announced from the back seat.

“What kind of place is this, the delinquent hall?”

My heart began to beat faster. What did I know about delinquents? The only kids I

babysat were the Turner triplets, and they were angels. I gripped the edge of the seat.

“Don’t worry, Jesse,” Mom soothed. “I’m sure he’s full of nervous energy. Besides, girls are always better behaved.”

The parking lot was a sea of buses and cars. All around us kids were hugging parents

goodbye while teenagers high-fived each other.

“Wow,” Grandma said. “I bet she’s pop, pop, popular!”

Standing tall among a giggling group of kids, a platinum blond ponytail armed with a

clipboard showed off a brilliant smile. Everyone else was a tray of stale graham crackers, and she was the cupcake with pink fluffy frosting. She ushered the group away from the buses, clearly their newly appointed summer queen.

“Are you all right?” Mom asked, studying my face. “Have you changed your mind?”

I snuck a look at Grandma in the backseat. “No, I need this time too, Mom.”

My armpits got sticky and my fists, full of vinyl, started to cramp. I couldn’t move.

Grandma leaned forward and put her head between me and Mom. “When I was

seventeen,” she began, “I spent my summer at a resort. There was one nerdy boy who was a terrible flirt. One night he asked me to help him carry some watermelons up to a private function. I expected some bridge club meeting, but it turned out to be this wild party for staff.”

Grandma sighed and her voice became dreamy. “And that’s when I saw Johnny. He was hired to teach the rich old ladies the fox trot. I fell so hard for him. He taught me about dancing, and love and well…it was a summer I’ll never forget. And all because I helped carry watermelons to a party.” She stared out the windshield, lost in her thoughts.

“Grandma! That’s Dirty Dancing!”

Mom closed her eyes then pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and finger. “I think the point Grandma is trying to make is that someday, you may have your own daughter at camp.” She paused for a moment then gave me a slight smile. “Do you want to tell her about a movie, or a real story—maybe one that might happen here, this summer?”

My mouth fell open. “Are you telling me to have sex?!”

Grandma exploded with laughter from the back seat. “Oh my god, Maria, if Stevie was still alive he’d have a heart attack all over again.”

“Mom!”

“Grandma!”

An uncomfortable silence filled the car. Slowly our sniffles punctured the quiet air.

“I’m sorry,” the three of us said together. Grandma reached for our hands.

“That was a good movie,” Mom finally said.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Especially the ending, when he catches her in the air.”

Mom cleared her throat. “Next year you’ll be getting ready for university, and you’ve

always spent so much time training. It’s good to slow down sometimes, Jesse,” she said.

“I’m worried you’re missing out on being a teenager.”

I stared down at my lap. My little summer camp experiment had become a test. A test to see if I could learn to live without running. Without Dad.

“But don’t do anything stupid,” Mom said, suddenly pan- icked. “Don’t lose your head in a false romance.”

“False romance?”

“Have fun, but don’t come home pregnant,” Grandma said.

“That’s it!” I screeched. “Any more talk of sex from you two, and I’ll be in the monastery for life!” I jumped out of the car and grabbed my duffel bag from the trunk.

“Nuns go to the convent,” Grandma called out.

We had discussed earlier that I would walk away on my own. No goodbyes, no tears— well, none outside the car. I shouldered my duffel bag and followed all the other kids.

The Cupcake ran by me, her perfect ponytail swinging from side to side, a clip- board tucked under her arm. I reached up and tried to smooth out my own hair, still somewhat straight from Chloe’s make- over last night.

“Hey Legs!”

Grandma had taken my seat, and was leaning out of the passenger window of the light blue van as it pulled away, and I suddenly wished I was going with them. “Just

remember,” she called out. “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.” Then she laughed and

blew me a kiss.

 

About the Author





I write YA, appreciate a design in my cappuccino, love shopping for vintage jewelry and dream in color. Coming from Nimbus Publishing, my contemporary coming of age novels, BUTTERFLIES DON’T LIE (SEPTEMBER 15,2014) and GIRL ON THE RUNJUST JESSE (Fall 2015). from Fierce Ink Press, ASP OF ASCENSION (July 2015).

Author Links:


     




GIVEAWAY:


 

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Spotlight On: Black Apocalypse, by Sasha Hibbs

Black Apocalypse

The Vulcan Legacies, 4

Sasha Hibbs

51,000 words

YA Paranormal Romance

Evernight Teen Publishing

Resurrected from the dead, Michael Blackwell is enraged and heartbroken to find Ally—the girl he loved—in the arms of the very man that killed him as a human. In Michael’s eyes, Ally’s betrayal is absolute. But there is more than meets the eye when it comes to the man who killed Michael, and even more with the girl he thought he knew. 

Black Apocalypse is a journey full of heartache and redemption where the past weaves an uncertain future. Can Michael forgive Ally for her betrayal? Can Ally finally embrace who she is destined to become to save them both? 

Who is the elusive Seraph, Laurel? Who was the Devourer before his colossal fall from grace? What decisions did they make together that altered the course of history? Shocking revelations, prophecies fulfilled, a war where not everyone will make it out alive…the final installment in the Vulcan Legacies will leave you breathless. 

14+ due to adult situations

 

Buy Links:   Evernight Teen     Amazon    

 

Excerpt:

He glanced at her silhouette. She stood beside him quietly, a tear streaking her pale face, one silver line visible against the cold wintery night.

“Will you dance with me?” Abaddon said, turning her back to face him.

Ally spoke with her body. She shivered as she turned to him, reaching out and lacing her fingers through his.

Abaddon responded by pulling her close against him, removing his hands from hers so he could wrap them around her, holding her tight and praying for the courage to see his task through.

The Seraph told him, told him what he must do. In his broken mind, the pieces lay jagged and strewn, but he was putting them together, regaining the memories he’d lost through the blinding rage of his illusion.

But Ally was real. He was holding her in his arms, and she came to him with trust, with patience, while he tried to regain the memories from his human life, ones that would guide him on the path he was supposed to be on now.

But as he held her in his arms, she felt so fragile, so breakable. He could hear the soft thrumming of her heart. The beat was uneven, a rhythm that reminded him of the last remnants of life.

Ally was dying. She was his soulmate and the beat of her heart gave him all the courage he needed. He wasn’t going to kill her. He was going to save her.

Abaddon slowly broke away from her, keeping her at arm’s length. Her light was dimming, but there was the faintest glimmer in her eyes that held hope for him. She would be strong enough to endure what he was getting ready to do to her. She had to be.

Abaddon brought his wrist up to his mouth, extended his canines and pierced his flesh. As blood rushed up to the surface, he gazed into her eyes.

He parted his lips, ready to speak, to tell her it would be okay, but was silenced by Ally resting a single finger against his lips.

“Shh,” Ally whispered.

Her gaze told him that she knew what was happening. She wouldn’t fight him. He could see that she would trust him, blindly put all her faith in him, was truly ready to walk down an unknown path with him.

He watched in awe as she circled her cold fingers around his wrist and brought it up to her lips. She locked gazes with him and he could feel her taking his essence into him. She ended by gently kissing his wrist where the wound was. She swept her hair to one side, exposing her neck up at him.

Abaddon felt a warm tear run down his cheek.

“It’s okay, Michael,” Ally said, her voice so little. “I’m ready.”

He unfurled his wings, pulled her against him tightly, lowered his lips to hers, and in his mind he whispered the words from a song, a song from a long time ago that meant so much to him then and even more to him now.

“I’ve waited such a long time for you,” he said. He softly caressed her lips with his, savoring the feel of her against him, the kiss he’d waited a lifetime and beyond for.

He raised his gaze back to hers, brushing a wisp of hair away from her eyes, cupping her face. “A lifetime,” he said, as he brushed soft kisses along her temple, her cheek, her jawline, back to her trembling lips. Thinking back to that night long ago, he lived the words of that song, held nothing back for what he felt for her.

Abaddon could see the tears standing in her eyes. He kissed them away, their salt lingering on his lips. He drew her closer into him so that he could feel she was real, she was in his arms, her life in his hands.

And through her tears, he could see the relief, he could see the hope, he could see her love staring back at him. His heart hammered in his chest, that muscle giving way to a new life, a life that only love could give.

He brushed his lips against hers again and again, whispering those lyrics so appropriate for them, for their life, their death, their love against a world that, like her essence, was fading fast. “You’ll always be mine.”

With shaky hands, Abaddon pulled her down to the ground with him. Cradling her in his lap, he grazed his canines against her throat. “I need you,” Abaddon whispered, as Ally laced her fingers through his hair, pulling him down to her vein. She arched her back, pressed up against him, encouraged him to drink from her, to take her to where he’d been.

Abaddon exhaled against her skin. With one hand holding her head and the other pressed firmly into the small of her back, he pierced her, sunk his teeth into the soft flesh at her neck. He took her into him, her blood coursing through him, sating a hunger for far more than sustenance. In her blood was the story of their life, the answers he sought, the lyrics to their own song.

Abaddon could feel the life slowly fade from her, could hear her heartbeat slow. Removing his canines, he drew back from her. Her head lolled to the side, her pupils beginning to fix. He brought her lips back to his, kissed her gently.

As Ally’s last breath escaped her body, Abaddon clutched her tightly to his chest, a crimson tear falling against her, he whispered into her ear, “Hurry back to me.”

 

About the Author:

By age 5, Sasha Hibbs’ favorite movie was Gone With the Wind. By age 12, she completed her 7th grade book report on the sequel, Scarlett. By 18, she met and married her very own Mr. Rhett Butler and as it turns out, she never had to worry about going back to Tara to win the love of her life back. Fortunately, he stuck with her.  

With a love of all things paranormal, the ambiance of the South with its gigantic antebellum mansions and canopies of Spanish moss, and a love for her husband’s rich storytelling of blacksmiths and the mythology surrounding their origins, it wasn’t long until the world of her debut novel, Black Amaranth, was born.

When not working her day job as a nurse, you can find Sasha dreaming of her next beach trip, reading the latest YA novel, and drinking more white chocolate mocha than she should.  

Sasha lives in mountainous West Virginia with her husband, Tim, and their two daughters, Aeliza and Ava. She is currently hard at work on her next novel.

 

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