Sarai Henderson's Blog, page 205

An expansion of the Witchlands world | Sightwitch by Susan Dennard

Title: SightwitchBy: Susan DennardGenre: FantasyPages: 208Release Date: February 13th, 2018Publisher: Tor Teen
Summary from Goodreads: From New York Times bestselling author Susan Dennard, Sightwitch is an illustrated novella set in the Witchlands and told through Ryber’s journal entries and sketches.
Before Safi and Iseult battled a Bloodwitch...

Before Merik returned from the dead…

Ryber Fortiza was a Sightwitch Sister at a secluded convent, waiting to be called by her goddess into the depths of the mountain. There she would receive the gift of foretelling. But when that call never comes, Ryber finds herself the only Sister without the Sight.

Years pass and Ryber’s misfit pain becomes a dull ache, until one day, Sisters who already possess the Sight are summoned into the mountain, never to return. Soon enough, Ryber is the only Sister left. Now, it is up to her to save her Sisters, though she does not have the Sight—and though she does not know what might await her inside the mountain.

On her journey underground, she encounters a young captain named Kullen Ikray, who has no memory of who he is or how he got there. Together, the two journey ever deeper in search of answers, their road filled with horrors, and what they find at the end of that road will alter the fate of the Witchlands forever.

Set a year before Truthwitch, Sightwitch is a companion novella that also serves as a set up to Bloodwitch, as well as an expansion of the Witchlands world. 

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Review: Welcome back to the Witchlands! I've always been drawn to this series. Its magical elements and intense story lines are things only an amazing author can think up. This story showed another side of the Witchlands, with some old and new characters. It was a great short read and I can't wait to see what will come next from Susan Dennard. 

Received an advance reader copy in exchange for a fair review.

Whether he likes it or not | The Backup Plan by Jen McLaughlin

Title: The Backup PlanBy: Jen McLaughlinGenre: Contemporary RomancePages: 254Release Date: March 19th, 2018Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC (Embrace)
Summary from Goodreads: I’m beyond help...
I threw a football before I could walk. Everything in my life revolved around football–and I loved every second. I was a star. Until, suddenly...I wasn’t. Now everyone thinks I’m the monster who killed his best friend. I’m an outcast on campus, silent and alone. Then Taylor Selmer walks back into my life. When will she learn–I’m beyond saving.

I need to save him...

Chase and I used to be friends. But after the accident, nothing was the same. We used to have something special–until we didn’t. But he doesn’t smile anymore. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t play. It hurts me to see him this way, and I will do everything I can to get him back in the game. Whether he likes it or not.

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Review: A fantastic mix of story and romance. So often, the author gets lost in the steamy scenes that the story that sucks you into reading the book in the first place is lost in all the hullabaloo. Reading, the Backup Plan, I felt like I could follow an entertaining story, but get that little bit of adult content that I like. Loved, and can't wait to see what Jen comes up with next. 
Received an advance reader copy in exchange for a fair review.

4 Olympic Stories That Defy The Odds

I just finished watching the closing ceremonies to the 2018 Olympics. It always amazes me how much work these athletes put into their craft and how much joy they get out of winning a medal. The big thing this year was North and South Korea competing hand in hand under one flag. I never thought something like this would happen in my life time. Also, the Russians still being caught for doping, even during these games. Huge news. 
Through all the trials and stories that come out of the Olympic games, there are some incredible books that showcase what its like to live through these times. Here are four books that I plan on reading this year about struggle, sacrifice and overcoming incredible odds. Enjoy! 

Title: The Boys in the BoatBy: Daniel James BrownGenre: Non-Fiction

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Title: TriumphBy: Jeremy SchaapGenre: Non-Fiction

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Title: UnbrokenBy: Laura HillenbrandGenre: Non-Fiction

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Title: Eddie The EagleBy: Eddie EdwardsGenre: Non-Fiction

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The Men Who Would Destroy It | The Philosopher's Flight by Tom Miller

Title: The Philosopher's Flight By: Tom MillerGenre: Historical FantasyPages: 432Release Date: February 13th, 2018Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Summary from Goodreads: “Rarely does a novel begin with rollicking fierceness that grabs readers from its opening lines and doesn’t loosen its grip or lessen its hold all the way through… Miller’s writing is intoxicating and one doesn’t need to be a fantasy or sci-fi fan to adore this book.”—Kim Curtis, Associated Press 
“The Philosopher’s Flight by debut novelist Tom Miller has already set a high bar for any book vying to be the most entertaining novel of 2018.”—Ian Schwartz, Bookpage 

A thrilling debut from ER doctor turned novelist Tom Miller, The Philosopher’s Flight is an epic historical fantasy set in a World-War-I-era America where magic and science have blended into a single extraordinary art. “Like his characters, Tom Miller casts a spell.” (Matthew Pearl, author of The Dante Club and The Last Bookaneer)

Eighteen-year-old Robert Weekes is a practitioner of empirical philosophy—an arcane, female-dominated branch of science used to summon the wind, shape clouds of smoke, heal the injured, and even fly. Though he dreams of fighting in the Great War as the first male in the elite US Sigilry Corps Rescue and Evacuation Service—a team of flying medics—Robert is resigned to mixing batches of philosophical chemicals and keeping the books for the family business in rural Montana, where his mother, a former soldier and vigilante, aids the locals.

When a deadly accident puts his philosophical abilities to the test, Robert rises to the occasion and wins a scholarship to study at Radcliffe College, an all-women’s school. At Radcliffe, Robert hones his skills and strives to win the respect of his classmates, a host of formidable, unruly women. 

Robert falls hard for Danielle Hardin, a disillusioned young war hero turned political radical. However, Danielle’s activism and Robert’s recklessness attract the attention of the same fanatical anti-philosophical group that Robert’s mother fought years before. With their lives in mounting danger, Robert and Danielle band together with a team of unlikely heroes to fight for Robert’s place among the next generation of empirical philosophers—and for philosophy’s very survival against the men who would destroy it.

In the tradition of Lev Grossman and Deborah Harkness, Tom Miller writes with unrivaled imagination, ambition, and humor. The Philosopher’s Flight is both a fantastical reimagining of American history and a beautifully composed coming-of-age tale for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider.

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Review: It's not very often that I get to say Historical Fantasy in the same sentence, but man, I love it. This book was a refreshing change to the same old fantasy that we read so often. I've been waiting for a new take on the magical aspect and this book gave me everything I wanted. 
Who doesn't want to fly? Who doesn't want to have a powerful story about discrimination and those who over came it? This book was powerful in its own way. The characters were fun and exciting. The story kept me engaged the whole time. To tell you the truth, I read this book from cover to cover in one day. All 432 pages of it. 
Loved this book and I would recommend it to fans of J.K. Rowling and Garth Nix. 

Received an advance reader copy in exchange for a fair review.

Orange Chicken Time! | #WeeklyMenu Week #239

Monday! Welcome back for another week of being an adult. On this weeks edition we learn how to cook... Just kidding... I'm not going to teach you to cook. That would be ridiculous. A girl who used to be made fun of for her cooking. The girl who "burned water." Guess what, haters? I'm an amazing cook now. Watch your back. 
I'm really loving my instant pot. We made the most amazing mac and cheese the other night for kids night. It was soooo goood, but of course, the boys hated it. That's how it always go. Oh well, more for me. 
I hope you enjoy this weeks menu!
Monday- Spaghetti 
Tuesday- Instant Pot Orange Chicken
Wednesday- Instant Pot Beef Stew and Potatoes
Thursday- Chicken and Veggies
Friday- Kids night - Ramen Soup- Instant Pot Pork Tenderloin 
Saturday- Doritos Taco Salad
Sunday- Leftovers Night
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Behind his Charming Smile | Still by Camilla Monk

Still
Camilla Monk
Publication date: February 28th 2018
Genres: New Adult, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy

It always started like this, a pulse inside me, like a warning before the tide surged, roared… and froze everything.
Twenty-year old Emma just landed in Rome, to find the father who walked out of her life more than a decade ago and was too busy eating pizza to call. Traveling with her is a secret she’s carried alone since childhood: sometimes, around her, time stops. People and cars freeze, rain hangs still in the air and there’s only her left in the silence.
To make things worse, instead of her dad, Em runs into a past she’d rather forget in the person of Lily, her step-sis. Kind, beautiful, Harvard honors student Lily: the perfect daughter Em never was. As the two of them reconnect, Em starts to pick up some creepy vibes from Katharos, the mysterious archaeological foundation Lily works for—and more specifically the ancient stone table they’re digging up near the coliseum…
Faust, the blind hobo Em keeps running into, might be the key to piercing Katharos’s secrets. Actually, he might even have something to do with that pesky time-freezing thing. With Lily’s life on the line and no one else to turn to, Em chooses to trust this unlikely ally, but behind his charming smile and lunar antics, the guy comes with some serious fine print…

Goodreads / Amazon—READ CHAPTER 1:Officially, this is not my story. It’s not my face you saw on CNN and Rai News after it was all over. I didn’t lose my mother at a young age; as far as I know, she’s still alive, probably doing fine. My paternal grandfather wasn’t a world-class historian, and I didn’t enroll in Harvard at seventeen to follow in his footsteps—I was never really good with books and studying. Just didn’t have the brains for that.
But I was there. I went to Rome to visit my dad at the time—booked a round trip ticket and six nights in a budget guesthouse with my tips from Tuna Town. I know, I know . . . Keep your jokes; I’ve heard them all. We had the cheapest tuna rolls on Broadway, though, and fresh most of the time. Anyway, I hadn’t seen my dad since I was seven, so it might sound like the adventure of a lifetime. It could even have been my story: this girl who decides to burn her meager savings on a trip to Italy to find the mysterious genitor she hasn’t heard from in thirteen years. There’s a tearful reunion, they sort out their issues, and she moves to Rome at the end—to start a new life and all.
I’ll get to that part, but let’s start with the afternoon right after I landed. I was sitting on a bench in a tiny park square tucked by the Piazza di San Marco—little more than a patch of grass under a few parasol pines. With my ripped jeans, my old Eastpak, and a can of beer tucked between my knees while I munched on a two-euro slice of margherita, I probably looked like your average gutter punk to the untrained eye. The October sun was warm in my hair—a messy bun dyed a washed-out turquoise. I liked that color, even if my blonde roots looked a little greenish.
Washing down the pizza with a slow sip, I watched over the rim of my can as buses came and went from a station on the square. Tons of buses, white and red, vomiting families of tourists coming to visit Roman ruins and that castle thing overlooking the piazza. It kinda looked like a Greek temple, with columns everywhere, white marble, and a statue of a guy on a horse in front of it. Old stuff, very nice. I took a couple of pics, mostly to pass the time because I couldn’t muster the courage to hop on a bus and go knock on my dad’s door.
I had his address saved in Google Maps; well, I hoped it was his, anyway. I’d found it not long after discovering his Facebook profile a few weeks ago, but he hadn’t replied to my friend invite. Maybe social media wasn’t his thing. He must be in his mid-fifties after all, which, to my twenty-year-old self sounded like some sort of pre-mummification stage. I set my beer down on the bench and took out my phone to check my Facebook feed for the hundredth time. I chewed on my nails. No new notification.
A few taps and a tiny profile pic of a fifty-something guy with graying blond hair appeared. Big grin, a tan, and sunglasses—taken during a vacation, I gathered.
Gabriele Lombardi.
Lombardi . . . the last name I had never worn. The name of a quiet Italian dude who’d sometimes visit our Brooklyn flat on Sundays and take me to Coney Island for the afternoon. We never did any rides, just strolled up and down the Boardwalk and shared a hot dog. He didn’t know what to say to a six-year-old, so he’d be like, “Guarda, gabbiani!” Look, seagulls! Meanwhile, I’d eat my half of our hot dog in dignified silence because I already knew what a seagull was. I would have wanted to hear about his job instead, or if he’d left Rome because of all the slavery there, like in Gladiator. And maybe, if I’d been brave enough, I’d have told him about the secret weighing in my chest and keeping me up at night, but I was too shy—too awkward for any of that.
I had no idea, back then, that Italy was even farther than Florida, and that this occasional Sunday dad of mine didn’t have legit visitation rights because he’d never filed for paternity in the first place. I didn’t know there’d be one too many fights with my mom over alimony, one too many threats of suing his lazy ass, one last Sunday, one last hot dog, and that I’d never see him again after that afternoon, when the seagulls paused in their flight above our heads for a short eternity.
Whatever. Tough shit, I guess. I chugged another gulp of beer and listened to the city’s noise, the cars, and the laugh of strangers, getting reacquainted with what little Italian I’d learned from my dad as a kid, like a song I wouldn’t remember well, but whose melody lingered. The notes threaded with Roman voices to fill the gaping holes in my vocabulary, and I could tell that those two women worked in a hospital, or that the guys sitting in the grass were checking their phone to see how to get to Quartaccio—wherever that was. Not bad for a high school dropout with a record 0.6 GPA. I gave a snort when I noticed an ad on the side of a bus with the words test di admissione. College, the final frontier . . .
I manspread wider on the bench with a bitter sigh and craned my neck to look up at the azure sky. Maybe I should message him again, and say “Hey, I’m here in Rome”? But what if he thought I was a stalker and he freaked out? What if he didn’t want to be found? Okay, that one was far-fetched; he was on Facebook, after all. And yet goose bumps bloomed under my hoodie in a familiar mix of shame and dread. It was kind of too late for that, but I was starting to realize I’d fucked up—again. I’d pictured myself starring in my very own Lifetime movie and blown $700 on a stupid impulse. Now I couldn’t even find the balls to call him and simply ask, “Do you remember me? Do you want to see me?”
“Okay,” I announced, to no one in particular—scared a couple of pigeons though.
I slammed my beer on the bench. Night wouldn’t fall for another couple of hours, at least. Museum tickets and tourist stuff were expensive, but I could always take a stroll around the piazza to clear my thoughts—the forum with the old Roman ruins was right behind that palace with the horseman. No need to pay for a ticket to check it from the street and snatch a few pics. I grabbed my backpack and beer. I frowned down at the almost-full black can. Honestly, that shit tasted worse than a Natty Daddy you drink alone for breakfast, and I didn’t want to be the girl who drowns her sorrow in grandma’s rubbing alcohol.
But I didn’t like to waste either. I decided to leave it up for whoever wanted to grab it—a bit of street solidarity never hurt. I’d barely shrugged on my backpack before this old guy with dirty track pants and gaping sneakers popped up behind me. Bumdar alert: dude hadn’t even bothered removing the cardboard sign around his neck—a few lines in Italian hastily scribbled with a Sharpie. I made no attempt to decipher it; his toothless grin spoke for itself. I flourished my hand toward the can with a wink.
He took the can and toasted me with it, chewing out a few words in a raspy singing voice. It took me a couple of seconds to make sense of the jumbled syllables—he wanted to know what a nice girl like me was doing in Rome.
My lips parted to reply. No sound came out. A loud and familiar beat in my chest muted my voice. His. Everyone else’s.
Oh God. Oh no . . .
It always started like this: a pulse inside me, like a warning before the tide surged, roared . . . and froze everything. The bum had raised my beer to his lips; golden drops remained still in the air above his open mouth. The tourists stood paralyzed mid-stride. The children’s grins were empty masks; their legs were coiled, ready for a jump that wasn’t coming, like birds about to fly away. The cars and the buses had stopped. Over the suffocating silence, all I could hear was the blood drumming in my ears, my neck. I staggered back, buried my face in my hands. I didn’t want it anymore—this hideous disease I could tell no one about.
It’d been weeks, perhaps even months since the last time, and like always, I’d almost allowed myself to believe it’d never happen again. How the fuck do you sit down in front of a shrink—or worse, your social worker—and tell them that you’re doing great, except when time stops, and everyone and everything is frozen but you? Don’t worry, though, it’s been like this since I was a kid; I’m used to it. I mean, sure, I freak out a teensy bit when I wake up at night, and I see a drop of water hanging midair from my kitchen faucet, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Nothing the right kind of meds and a straitjacket can’t fix, right, Doc?
It wouldn’t last. It never did. I massaged my skull and kept my eyes screwed shut, repeating the words in my head like a mantra: It’s almost over. It never lasts. Never. Just long enough to make me freak out in the middle of Central Park among frozen joggers and their dogs. Wax statues everywhere whose clothes wouldn’t wrinkle when I tried to touch them, water that wouldn’t wet my hands, and the silence, the silence drilling into my eardrums. I breathed through my nose. In. Out. Slowly, ticking endless seconds in my head until the hallucination passed.
Reality rushed back to me in a deep exhale. A car honked somewhere across the piazza, and the bum chugged down the rest of my can with a reassuring gurgle. A fat kid bumped into me; I was so out of it that I was the one who kept apologizing over and over as I stumbled away from the bench and toward the sidewalk. I needed to get away from the noise, the people. Right now. Scratch tourism; my new plan was to run straight to the guesthouse, check into my room, and stay curled in the dark until tomorrow.
Fighting the urge to climb on the first bus I saw, I resolved to ask for directions instead. Because my day hadn’t been shitty enough yet, might as well stack some cringeworthy social interaction in a language I hadn’t spoken in over a decade on top of it. I waved awkward fingers at a sweaty driver who sat slouched behind his wheel. “Quale . . . Autobus . . . Appia Alba?” Which . . . bus . . . Appia Alba?
My stuttering efforts were rewarded with a compassionate wince before he motioned at another station across the park with a doughy arm. “Si può prendere l’ottantasette.” I remained stuck in place, my jaw hanging limply as I slowly processed his instructions. “Ottantasette,” he repeated, before thankfully adding, “Eighty-seven.”
I gave an eager nod. “Grazie mille, signore.” Thank you very much, sir.
Well, things were looking up. If the bus didn’t freeze on its way to my guesthouse, I might even consider the trip a small victory. I strode toward the station at a brisk pace, passing the bum I’d given my beer to earlier. Dude had collapsed on the bench, using his cardboard sign to shield his leathery face from the sun while he napped. I thought of that old Phil Collins song: “Just Another Day in Paradise,” but I wasn’t really sad for him because I knew there were good and bad days on the streets, and to him, a sunny afternoon and free beer probably made for a good one.
Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t pay attention to the elegant silhouette catching up with me until a soft voice said, “Em? Is that you?”

Author Bio:
Camilla Monk is a French native who grew up in a Franco-American family. After finishing her studies, she taught English and French in Tokyo before returning to France to work in advertising. Today, she builds rickety websites for financial companies and lives in Montreal, where she keeps a close watch on the squirrels and complains on a daily basis about the egregious number of Tim Hortons.
Her writing credits include the English resumes and cover letters of a great many French friends, and some essays as well. She’s also the critically acclaimed author of a few passive-aggressive notes pasted in her building’s elevator.
Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter

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Cutthroat Book Club and February Wrap Up

If you've been around my blog or Instagram feed, then you might have heard me talk about the Cutthroat Book Club that I've been taking part of for the last eight weeks. It has been a blast and a little stressful at times, but mostly a blast. This is how it works.

There are four rounds of two weeks each. During those rounds, you have a list of tasks to complete, like read a book with purple eyes on the cover (Yes, that was one.) During the round, there are sabotages that your team can bid on. Things like, You can only read books with a prime number of pages. Whoever wins the sabotage can place it on any team and it lasts until the end of the round. It gets cray and sabotages are thrown everywhere.

On our last round, we had the following sabotages placed on us.

Can only read books with a prime number of pages.
Can only read books with at least two letters from the word LOVE in the title.
Can't have more than one E in the title.

Books became harder and harder to find as more and more sabotages were placed on us, but that's what happens when you are in first place. That's right, big old target on our backs. We managed to hold onto our lead for the most part, only losing at the last minute to a great team. It was neck and neck for a while and I wouldn't have lost to any other team.

In the eight week period, I read a whopping 107 books. Some were terrible, most were, OK and some were great. If you want to check out all the books I read, click here.

Read on for a few of the great one's that I really enjoyed and would recommend to all of my readers.



The Queens of Innis Lear out from Tor on March 27th, 2018. Make sure you check out my review.

Grey SisterRelease April 3rd by AceMy review is up on the blog

Burn BrightAnother awesome book by Patricia BriggsComing March 6th from AceReviewed on this blog

The Demands of his Heart | Duty Bound by Christina Bauer

Duty Bound
Christina Bauer
(Angelbound Origins 0.5)
Published by: Monster House Books
Publication date: February 27th 2018
Genres: Young Adult, Paranormal Romance

An Angelbound Prequel Novella by Christina Bauer
As the High Prince of the demon-fighting thrax, Lincoln knows he must marry for political gain. Not that he minds. For all of his eighteen years, Lincoln’s been bound to his duty. Fighting demons is his life, and he’s never given romance a second thought. Instead, the High Prince lives for the days when he leaves his hidden realm to fight demons on Earth.
Then, everything changes.
Lincoln and his nobles become forced to visit Purgatory, the home of quasi-demons (who are mostly human with a bit of demonic DNA). Here Lincoln spies Myla Lewis, a lady warrior who enflames his heart, ignites his interest, and inspires his respect. Trouble is, Myla’s also a quasi. By thrax law, Lincoln must kill anything demonic—not date them. For the first time in his life, Lincoln wonders if he’ll follow his duty…or heed the demands of his heart.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google PlayGrab Angelbound – Book 1 – for FREE:
Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play—READ CHAPTER 1:I am Lincoln Vidar Osric Aquilus, High Prince of the Thrax. My people are renowned as the greatest demon hunters across Heaven, Hell, Earth, Purgatory, and the Dark Lands. At eighteen years old, I’ve killed precisely one thousand four hundred and thirty-seven demons in hand-to-hand combat, more than any other thrax in history. All of which leads to a single inescapable conclusion.
I can make it through this breakfast with my mother.
At least, I think I can.
“You haven’t touched your eggs, my son.” Mother spears a strawberry off her plate. After many years of maternal encounters, I’ve learned to keep my mouth closed in situations like this one. Mother will bring up her true concerns when she’s good and ready.
In reply, I merely maintain her stare. We’ve an odd relationship, but a close one. We’re both natural schemers, so neither wants to pass up a test of intelligence and charm.
“Perhaps you dislike formal breakfasts,” says Mother as she gestures to my tunic.
“I’m fine with wearing royal garb to meals. Rest assured, all my Batman costumes are safely packed away.” As a child, I fought hard to dress as a human superhero. Unlike demon killing, that was one battle I ultimately lost.
“So you say.” A small smile rounds Mother’s mouth. “Those tunics hide quite a lot.”
“True. I’ve a Bohemian Rhapsody T-shirt on under this thing.”
“I have no idea what that is, but I’m pleased to see you turned out so well.”
This morning, I’m dressed in a velvet tunic, leather pants, and tall boots. Meanwhile, Mother looks regal and lethal in her black velvet gown. She has porcelain skin, delicate features, and an all-knowing glare that reduces hardened warriors to mush.
Needless to say, I’m pleased that her glare has softened. I must remember to work Batman into our conversations more often.
For a few minutes, Mother and I continue our breakfast in silence. It would be pleasant, except for the setting. Our new feasting hall is located in Purgatory.
Yes, Purgatory.
This place combines the worst of a rundown human suburb with the best of a rotting Dumpster. The sky is constantly cloudy with two types of weather: rainy and about to rain. It’s part of the magic of this realm that the weather is always dreary. Plus, the sky never reveals the sun or moon, and even if it did, those celestial bodies follow different patterns than they do in other realms.
Closing my eyes, I let my thoughts return to the glittering caverns of my homeland. As a rule, thrax live underground on Earth in the realm of Antrum. For some reason, the oracle angel, Verus, has demanded the royal family—and our noble entourage—move to Purgatory for a short period of time. This wasn’t a popular idea, but the oracle’s word is law, so we arrived here three months ago. Until Verus sets us loose, our days will be spent in tents and wooden halls like this one.
I scan the empty benches around me and sigh. It’s hard being separated from the bulk of my people. Quiet breakfasts like this only make things worse. Usually our feasting hall is packed with thrax sharing breakfast at communal tables. However, today Mother insisted on having a family-only morning meal, which in this case translates into me, Mother, and a half-dozen terrified workers. Father should get here any minute now. I can only hope he arrives before Mother’s temper returns.
As if in reply to my thoughts, Mother spears another wilted strawberry with a vengeance. Looks like her temper will resurface before Father does. Bugger.
“You never answered my question,” says Mother. “You haven’t touched your food.” She spears a grape with such force the entire table wobbles.
“Careful there,” I say. “You’ll bring down the roof down.”
“One perk of being queen. I can bring down roofs and no one says a thing.”
At those words, the half-dozen servants in the room visibly shiver.
There’s no question about the general topic of Mother’s angst, either. It’s always the same issue: the House of Acca. That tribe is the largest and most troublesome of all thrax.
At this point, problems with Acca could fall into one of two categories.
One, Mother might be worried about my impending marriage contract with Acca’s most eligible noblewoman, Lady Adair. If Mother thinks there are problems on that front, she would be sorely mistaken. It’s a business arrangement, nothing more. I’d regret that, but I’m a prince. I always knew I’d never marry for love.
Two—and far more worrisome—would be if Mother discovered my ongoing scheme against Aldred, the dreaded Earl of Acca himself. I’ve many issues with the Earl, but my largest is how Aldred keeps leading his warriors into ill-planned demon attacks on the Earth’s surface. Thanks to the Earl of Acca, hundreds of good thrax meet bad ends every week. I meet with the families of the fallen, trying to provide comfort as their worlds fall apart. So many tears and ruined lives…and all so the Earl can prove his so-called prowess in battle.
It’s outrageous.
Even worse, my parents have forbidden me from doing anything to stop Aldred’s bloodshed. Per some ancient treaty, if I interfere with Aldred’s rights to lead his troops, then the Earl has the unmitigated right to execute me on the spot.
And as every royal knows, execution threats and breakfast do not mix well.

Author Bio:
Christina Bauer knows how to tell stories about kick-ass women. In her best selling Angelbound series, the heroine is a part-demon girl who loves to fight in Purgatory’s Arena and falls in love with a part-angel prince. This young adult best seller has driven more than 500,000 ebook downloads and 9,000 reviews on Goodreads and retailers.
Bauer has also told the story of the Women’s March on Washington by leading PR efforts for the Massachusetts Chapter. Her pre-event press release—the only one sent out on a major wire service—resulted in more than 19,000 global impressions and redistribution by over 350 different media entities including the Associated Press.
Christina graduated from Syracuse University’s Newhouse School with BA’s in English along with Television, Radio, and Film Production. She lives in Newton, MA with her husband, son, and semi-insane golden retriever, Ruby.
Website / Blog / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / LinkedIn

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Macaroni | Kelly and Cauliflower Chapter 1

Kelly and Cauliflower
Chapter One
Macaroni
The pineapple smelled amazing. To bad it wasn't in season and the price was horrendous. Kelly might have purchased it if she wasn't picking up extra groceries that Cauliflower said she was going to buy but didn't. The pineapple would have to wait, disappointing as it was.  
One more isle to go. The toilet paper was calling. That soft sheet of paper, used to clean ones self after a morning poop. Strangely enough, it was absent from the bathroom counter that morning and upon frantic searching, Kelly had found two half-used rolls hidden in the bottom drawer of the cabinet next to the toilet. Apparently, Cauliflower thought she needed to horde the toilet paper, since it was her turn to purchase more and she didn't.
After Kelly threw a large pack of the Charmen Ultra Strong into her cart with more force than was necessary due to her bad mood, she headed to the checkout to pay for her weeks worth of groceries before heading home.
The drive from the grocery store to the house that Kelly shared with Cauliflower, Dave and Randolph was short, but traffic in that part of town seemed to bottle neck just before Kelly's turn off to her road. The street was one steep hill, and the house was at the bottom. Kelly stopped the car at the peak, looking down upon the road below and let her mind wander. John Meyer played a melancholy song in the background, putting her in a subdued mood. 
It was better this way. If Kelly went inside the house in a full on rage, someone would end up without a limb and Kelly didn't want to spend time in jail. Plus, poor Dave would be left to his own devices inside a house full of crazies, since Randolph wasn't exactly of sound mind either, but at least he could hold down a job. 
The car slowly crept down the hill, giving Kelly time to contemplate stopping. She could pass on by, keep going and never come back, but that wouldn't be the adult thing to do. Plus, all her stuff was there and Dave would never forgive her for disappearing.    
Reluctantly, Kelly pulled her car into the driveway and started hauling the groceries in. Cauliflower was sitting on the couch staring at the TV that was off. She didn't move or make any indication that she was going to help carry in the bags from the store. Typical.
When the last can of corn was placed on the shelf, Kelly's stomach rumbled, calling for the left over chicken and macaroni that Kelley had been saving from dinner the night before. Macaroni just happened to be Kelly's favorite comfort food, and right now, with all the crap Cauliflower had been pulling, she really needed something comforting to sooth the savage beast inside. 
The all familiar creek of the fridge filled the air as Kelly opened the door, letting out a cool breeze and the smell of left over onion that had been left uncovered on the top shelf for several days. 
Where was it? Kelly searched for the black plastic container that indicated her macaroni. There was a similar sized container, but upon further inspection, it was Dave's coleslaw, half eaten and sitting in a base of white liquid. That wasn't it. Kelly moved more and more containers and packages, searching frantically for the perfect creamy macaroni. No, this can't be. Where is it? 
Kelly stopped as he fists balled. She didn't? She wouldn't? How many times have I told Cauliflower that if its not her's don't touch it. Don't touch my makeup, don't touch my clothes, don't touch my food. It's not a hard concept, but somehow it was for Cauliflower.
Speaking of the devil. The party in question sauntered out of the bathroom with her shirt tucked into her under ware and the left side of her hair matted to her head. She yawned. "Good morning."
Kelly was in no mood for niceties. "Did you eat my macaroni?"
Cauliflower nodded. "Yep, it was delicious."
"That was mine." Kelly's voice was beginning to shake from frustration. "I was going to eat it."
Cauliflower started to pour a cup of coffee from the pot, but it was empty. Another staple that it was her turn to buy and she had mysteriously forgotten to. "I really wanted to eat it. It was calling to me."
"I don't care if it grows legs and crawls into your hand. Stop touching my stuff." Kelly's arms were crossed as she laid down the law for the umpteenth time. 
Cauliflower seemed to ignore her roommate and left the kitchen with a k-cup of espresso in hand and the box under her arm. This was going nowhere, as usual.
This was the last straw. Kelly found a pen and a pad of sticky notes and began labeling everything in the fridge that was her's with a note that said, "Don't eat," Even the individually sealed cups of ranch from the KFC. Feeling accomplished, Kelly moved on to the laundry room to label her laundry soap.
A few minutes later, when Kelly was nearly done labeling the first floor, Cauliflower wandered by on her way to the back deck for a smoke with a full container of cottage cheese in her hands. 
"Is that my cottage cheese?" Kelly groaned.
"Yeah," said Cauliflower. "My stomach said cottage cheese and I was like, Ok."
Cauliflower left the room without another word or any expression of feeling guilty. Something had to be done about Cauliflower....

Cajun is Amajun... | #WeeklyMenu Week #238

Monday, Monday! We are back and its another glorious day. I finished up my Cutthroat Book Club yesterday. eight weeks of back stabbing, sabotage throwing, book slamming fun. Read 107 books! I'm going to be recapping my book fun later on in the week, so stay tuned.

Now back to the good stuff. Today's Menu!

Monday- Pulled Pork Sandwiches
Tuesday- Cajun Chicken
Wednesday- Sheet Pan Sliders
Thursday- Instant Pot Stroganoff
Friday- Kids night - Instant Pot Mac and Cheese
Saturday- Instant Pot Taco Soup
Sunday- Leftovers Night