Megan Morgan's Blog, page 15

Bitter Harvest by Ann Gimpel

Today I’m hosting Ann Gimpel and her paranormal romance/urban fantasy Bitter Harvest series. Check it out below!

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Deceived

Bitter Harvest

Book One

Ann Gimpel

Magic shattered the world, but the worst is yet to come.

“Provocative and engaging. A fast-paced, supernatural ride.” Michelle Fox, NYT Bestselling Author

The sea may have been a harsh mistress, but Viktor longs for the challenges of wind and weather, for the sound of waves crashing over his hull. Turned by a Master Vampire, he hates what he’s become, but there’s no escape. Not from Ushuaia that’s turned into a city of bones, or from the Vampire who rules him.

Ketha and eleven other Shifters traveled to Ushuaia to harness the power of an eclipse and were trapped there when the world turned upside down. Ten years later, they’re staying one step ahead of Vampires who blame them for the cataclysm.

With her luck running low, Ketha turns her badly depleted magic on the Vampire assigned to lock her away and gets sucked in by her own spell. Maybe magic can’t save the world, but love might be able to salvage what’s left.

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EXCERPT:

…..Ketha woke in the middle of a dozen Vamps. Iron burned her skin where manacles circled her ankles and wrists. If she’d thought the smell was bad before, it was an absolute reeking horror now. Vampires smelled of blood and death and rot. How could any Shifters worth their vows align themselves with these bastards? Taking care to be stealthy, she glanced about an oval room, inlaid with wood. It had a church-ish feel that was clinched when she spied a Christ figure attached to one wall.

Close to a dozen Vamps crowded into the space. All of them held an eerie beauty, but Ketha wasn’t fooled. Their striking good looks ran less than skin deep. Skilled, ruthless killers, they counted on blood to survive. Living blood. Blood tapped from dead things ran a poor second.

The back of her head throbbed painfully, and she shut her eyes to buy herself time to think. Maybe no one had noticed she wasn’t unconscious. The Vamp standing nearest kicked her, right before he ordered her to wake up.

She flinched away from her attacker. Eyes flickering open, she regarded the one who’d struck her. Long, dark hair fell around his perfect face, and he augured fog-colored eyes her way. Ketha edged beyond easy reach of his booted feet into a sit, awkward because of her bound limbs. She didn’t waste words telling him she was already awake, or that no one could rest easy in their midst. She stared at a newly dead rat clutched in his hand and beat back a knowing smile. If they were using rats for blood, the Vampires were in as desperate a predicament as she’d assumed.

“You’ve captured me,” she sneered, opting for defiance. “Now what? Do I get to be everyone’s dinner?” She swung her head from side to side, encompassing the room full of Vamps. “At least remove my shackles. If I’m going to die, I’d rather face you as a wolf.”

The rat-wielding Vamp didn’t answer.

“I’m Ketha.” She held onto her slender advantage and flowed to her feet. Once she got her balance, she folded her arms as best she could beneath the swell of her breasts. “Rat got your tongue?” She jerked her chin at the rodent still clutched in the Vamp’s hand.

Before he could answer, she kept right on rolling, taunting him. “If you’re going to kill me, get on with it, but know this—” She summoned what magic she could, given the iron circling her wrists and ankles. The air about her shimmered with the blues and golds unique to her castings. “You will never escape Ushuaia without us.”

The Vamp faced off against her. “What makes you think we want to escape, Shifter?”

Ketha shrugged, favoring him with the full force of her gaze. “You like it here? Soon there won’t be anything left to eat or drink, and then all of us will die. Even Vamps. But if you’re good with that”—another shrug she hoped spoke for itself—“I suppose there’s nothing to talk about. Go on.” She made shooing motions with her bound hands. “Get on with it. I’m prepared to die. We don’t have too many more months here at the ass end of the world before none of us will be left. Take a chance, Vampire. Face my wolf.”

The Vamp smiled coldly. “I’ll pass. I suppose you have the answer to all our problems.”

“I do.” Ketha let a small, secretive smile play about her mouth. “But I’ll never tell you. Funny thing about being captured. It quiets the tongue.”

The Vampire’s chilly expression didn’t change. “Show some respect. No one addresses me that way.”

“It appears I just did.” Ketha tossed her shoulders back. She’d be damned if she’d let the blood-sucking bastard intimidate her. “You need us. Unfortunately, we need you as well, but what I had in mind was equal partners at a conference table, not being knocked over the head and dragged here.”

Satisfaction warmed her when a vein throbbed in the Vamp’s temple before he crushed the rat to bits of bone and tissue, splattering her with blood. Apparently, she’d gotten to him. What that meant remained to be seen. He summoned one of the others, a Vamp named Viktor. Ketha watched with interest when the other Vampire—clearly some minion—didn’t race to comply, but took his sweet time making his way to where they stood.

Another gorgeous man. This one had copper-colored hair that fell to his shoulders. A high forehead, square jaw, and emerald eyes made him movie star dazzling. Ketha bit down on her lower lip to force her thoughts away from his allure. Like the other Vampires, he was dressed in a motley collection of rags. Either they couldn’t sew—or they had no idea how to create garments that resisted decay.

As Viktor drew near, she assessed him with magic and shielded her surprise. He didn’t feel anything like the one with bloody rat remains on his hands, and the characteristic rot smell was absent Moving with the unholy speed characteristic of his breed, Rat-Vamp slapped cuffs atop her manacles and snapped, “Take her to the caves,” all but shoving her into Viktor’s arms.

Viktor latched a hand firmly around Ketha’s elbow, focused his attention on the other Vampire, and asked, “What then?”

Rat-Vamp sent a sharp look his way. “Lock her up and return. I’ll decide her fate once she tells us whatever she knows about escaping Ushuaia.”

“I already explained how that would happen.” Ketha made her tone pointed. No reason to be subtle around these fuckers; they didn’t deal in nuance. “At a conference table as an equal. So long as you hold me captive, my wolf and I will die before we help you do anything.”

Rat-Vamp shifted his gaze her way. “It appears we’re at a stalemate. Perhaps some cell time will alter your perspective.”

“Don’t count on it.”

She turned her magic toward Viktor, wanting to know what was in his mind. The answer shocked and thrilled her. This one was different, malleable. It wasn’t her imagination that he’d dragged his heels reacting to Rat-Vamp’s command. Viktor might be her ticket to freedom. He might actually let her go—if she played her cards right.

“Lead out.” She hip-butted him to spur him into action. “This room stinks of Vampires, and it’s giving me a headache.”

Rat-Vamp snarled and lunged for her, wrapping his hands around her shoulders and shaking her until her teeth rattled. “Never forget who runs things in Ushuaia. This is blood’s dominion. My dominion.”

Ketha stood her ground. “Funny, but I thought I and my Shifters were in charge. Besides, if you were going to kill me, I’d already be dead.” Ketha could’ve said more. Could have voiced her suspicion that he was intrigued by what she’d said, but she opted to keep her mouth shut. The sooner the weak one left with her, the sooner she’d be free.

Hopefully.

Rat-Vamp drew back his lips and extended his fangs, bloody from his earlier skirmish with the rat, but he didn’t say anything further before Viktor herded her from the room.

“Remain quiet,” Viktor said sternly and shepherded her toward a stairwell. “Vampires have excellent hearing.”

Ketha took a chance. Easy enough since she had nothing to lose. Could he hear telepathy? Now was as good a time as any to find out. “I’m sure they do, and you don’t want them to know what’s in your mind. Lucky for you, Vamp magic can’t hold a candle to mine, even bound as I am by iron.”

They’d started down stairs dimly illuminated by long-unwashed windows. A startled look flashed across his face, and it gave her hope. “Son of a bitch. You heard me.”

[image error]Twisted

Bitter Harvest

Book Two

Ann Gimpel

A small group of Shifters sails south from Ushuaia, determined to assess what’s left of the world. A Vampire attack, a possessed priest, and a gateway to Hell mean fallout from the spell gone bad that pinned them in Ushuaia for years is far from gone.

Back on a ship again, Juan reconstructs what’s always been a comfort zone. The sea is the only life he’s ever known—if you don’t count the ten years he spent as a Vampire. His new magic, fueled by a bond with a mountain cat, brings its own set of challenges, but they pale in comparison with the white-hot need knifing through him whenever Aura is anywhere close.

A historian by trade, Aura deals in prophecies for her Shifter pack. Attraction for Juan ignited when they fought the Cataclysm, but she figures he left a string of broken hearts during his years as chief navigator on cruise ships. They have to work together. A self-indulgent affair could ruin everything. She does her damnedest to keep distance between them, but the ship’s not big enough to escape yearning for a future together.

Author Store     Amazon     B&N     Kobo     iTunes     Google Play

EXCERPT:

“Watch it!” Her cat was near the surface, and a snarling hiss punctuated its words.

Aura ground to a halt. She’d pulled well ahead of everyone else with her leggy stride. Viktor and Ketha strolled with their arms wrapped around each other as lovers often did. Karin and Rowana brought up the rear, chatting.

“Watch what?” she asked her bond animal.

“I caught a whiff of wrongness. Check for yourself.”

“What is it?” Ketha pulled up next to her. “Why’d you stop?”

“My cat thinks something’s not right.”

Viktor slipped the rifle off his shoulder in a fast, fluid motion that spoke to his familiarity with it.

Aura shut her eyes, urging her senses to preternatural sharpness. Something unpleasant and eerily familiar zapped her. She curled her hands into fists and dug deeper. She had to be wrong.

Before she was through dissecting what she sensed lay beyond, perhaps in the barracks a couple hundred yards away, Ketha muttered, “Shit! It isn’t possible.”

Aura opened her eyes and gripped the other Shifter’s arm. “You picked up on Vampire emanations, right?”

Ketha nodded, eyes wide with disbelief. “How? They’re all supposed to have transformed into humans or Shifters.”

“Why are you talking about Vampires, dearie?” Rowana asked. She and Karin had finally caught up with them.

“I have no idea how,” Aura gritted out the words, “but they’re here.”

Karin narrowed her eyes to slits. “Vampires? Don’t be ridiculous. The Cataclysm altered them, removed the Vampire mutation in their DNA.”

“Or not.” Rowana twisted her face into a grimace.

“Check for yourself,” Ketha told the other two women.

Aura scrubbed the heels of her hands down her face, urging rational thought, and then scanned the place that felt menacing one more time. “It’s not quite right for Vampire, at least not the Ushuaia variety,” she muttered.

“Not exactly,” Ketha agreed. “But there are at least two of whatever they are, and their emanations are closer to Vamp than anything else.”

“The question of the hour,” Viktor said, “is whether we move forward or retreat. It’s a group decision.”

Aura thought about it, and when she spoke, her words came hard. “We left Ushuaia to figure out what was left in the rest of the world. If we turn tail and run the first time we encounter anything, we may as well never have set sail.”

Viktor grinned wryly. “Spoken like a true explorer. Shackleton would have been proud of you.”

“I remember reading about him,” Aura muttered. “If this is Grytviken, isn’t he buried here?”

“He is, indeed,” Viktor said. “His grave is on the far side of the post office, but only because his wife told the ship with his remains to bring him back here. I guess he was quite the philanderer, and she wasn’t interested in footing the expense of bringing his cheating ass home.”

“Interesting,” Aura said, “but we’re stalling. My vote is to see what the hell feels like Vampire.”

“Mine too,” Rowana said.

“I’m in,” Karin said. “If we could survive Armageddon against the Cataclysm, how hard could this be?”

Viktor cocked his head to one side. “Depends. If they’re Vamps, only beheading with iron will do them in.”

“Maybe they’ll be friendly.” Ketha screwed her face into what might have been a hopeful expression, except it came off more like a grimace.

“Friendly and Vampire in the same sentence is an oxymoron,” Viktor said in a flat, dead tone. “It appears we’re all game, so all of you get behind me and stay close. Deploy your magic. It’s still far more finely honed than mine.” He shouldered the rifle. “If I have to, I’ll use this. It should at least slow them down.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

[image error]Ann Gimpel is a mountaineer at heart. Recently retired from a long career as a psychologist, she remembers many hours at her desk where her body may have been stuck inside four walls, but her soul was planning yet one more trip to the backcountry. Around the turn of the last century (that would be 2000, not 1900!), she managed to finagle moving to the Eastern Sierra, a mecca for those in love with the mountains. It was during long backcountry treks that Ann’s writing evolved. Unlike some who see the backcountry as an excuse to drag friends and relatives along, Ann prefers solitude. Stories always ran around in her head on those journeys, sometimes as a hedge against abject terror when challenging conditions made her fear for her life, sometimes for company. Eventually, she returned from a trip and sat down at the computer. Three months later, a five hundred page novel emerged. Oh, it wasn’t very good, but it was a beginning. And, she learned a lot between writing that novel and its sequel.

Around that time, a friend of hers suggested she try her hand at short stories. It didn’t take long before that first story found its way into print and they’ve been accepted pretty regularly since then. One of Ann’s passions has always been ecology, so her tales often have a green twist.

In addition to writing, Ann enjoys wilderness photography. She lugs pounds of camera equipment in her backpack to distant locales every year. A standing joke is that over ten percent of her pack weight is camera gear which means someone else has to carry the food! That someone is her husband. They’ve shared a life together for a very long time. Children, grandchildren and three wolf hybrids round out their family.

Find Ann At:

www.anngimpel.com

http://anngimpel.blogspot.com

http://www.amazon.com/author/anngimpel

http://www.facebook.com/anngimpel.author

https://twitter.com/anngimpel

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Filed under: Guest Posts Tagged: guests, paranormal, romance, urban fantasy

Growing Up Writer

I’ve talked before about how I “officially” became a writer around 13-14, but I think I was probably always destined to be a writer. Even as a child, it crept into my life. Of course, it made you a weirdo at that stage, wanting to do MORE schoolwork than everybody else, but I liked making up stories and I liked writing them down.

I didn’t go to kindergarten, because at that time (I’m old!) in the state I lived in, it wasn’t mandatory. I think you could have your child take a test, and if they were sufficiently advanced, they didn’t have to go. In any case, I started schooling with first grade. I don’t recall learning to read and write being particularly difficult for me, I just remember not liking those sheets where you had to form your letters correctly, largely because I’m left-handed and back then (again, I’m old!) it was still bizarrely frowned upon. Yes, if you’re too young to remember, or had no awareness of it because you’re a righty, they used to discourage kids from being left-handed! I was allowed to write with my left hand, but I had to use a grip on my pencil because I didn’t hold the pencil “correctly,” which is hard to do when you’re literally writing upside down. To this day, I still hold a pen strangely. At least I was ALLOWED to be left-handed. My grandmother was forced to become right-handed and would have her knuckles cracked by the teacher if she wrote with her left hand. This was really a thing.

[image error]In any case, I learned to read and write pretty fast, and I have a clear memory of writing an entire essay in first grade. In second grade, I won a contest for writing a story about a family living on a houseboat (the accompanying drawing was terrible though, I am NOT an artist), and I think my fate was set. I was always the kid who took writing assignments way too seriously. If we had to make up a story, the other kids would do the minimum while I’d be the one turning in a three-page story complete with plot and multiple characters. This continued into high school, too.

I took a creative writing class in high school, and one of our first projects was to write a story that hinged on us getting to know our classmates better. Everyone had to use their initials to create an adjective and profession (for example, someone with the initials AB could be an Awesome Baker). We then had to make up a brief story using 3 or 4 of the “characters.” I remember most people wrote a page or two, but oh not me. I wrote a six-page serious murder-mystery. To my horror, the teacher decided the best story would be read in front of the class, and guess whose it was? I remember not feeling proud so much as mortified that everyone would think I was kissing up to the teacher or trying to show off. However, I also remember my teacher saying “Ah, so you’re the one who’s actually going to be a writer,” and that has stuck with me to this day.

Growing up a writer is weird, especially if you’re not surrounded by creative types already (which I wasn’t). Still, my teacher was right. Here I am, actually being a writer!

What’s your “growing up writer” story? How and when did you figure it out for yourself, and how did it make you different from others?

Filed under: About Me, Behind The Scenes Tagged: creativity, me, personal life, writing

The Fated Saga by Sariah Skye

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Fated Souls
The Fated Saga Book 1
by Sariah Skye
Genre: Paranormal Romance



Leorah James is your average, single woman. Works in a coffee shop, drives a

beat-up car, watches TV with her cat, and lives a very ordinary life

in rural Minnesota among humans. On the outside, you’d never know

that the entirely-typical woman hides a secret.

Leorah is a dragon-shifter. Not just any dragon shifter,
but a pink dragon shifter.


Pink?
Yes, pink.

Unlike her dragon counterparts, she’s smaller, cannot fly, doesn’t

breathe fire, and is not very intimidating at all. In her home

kingdom of Anarach, she is bullied, tormented, and hated. So, she

chooses to live simply, and blend in with humanity.

Until a cute, but mysterious stranger enters the shop where she works. And

he knows exactly who, and what Leorah is hiding. Gabriel O’Donnell

will help uncover who she is, and teach her what she’s capable of.

All the while a dark, ominous force that hasn’t been seen in

centuries threatens everything Leorah holds dear.

Together, will they succumb to the darkness?
Or will they fight in the shadows,

and discover just who Leorah is fated to be?


Goodreads * Amazon
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I smiled at them, shaking my head. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to dream only of fairy tale things back then when I was their age. Instead, I had fantasized about living in a place where no one knew who I was just so that I could escape the agony of constant ridicule from my family and their friends and—well, everyone really—about who I was, what I was, what I couldn’t do compared to everyone else. Living under constant scrutiny was hard. I could do no right. I was an embarrassment. I was a freak. Here in Pineville, Minnesota I was still technically a freak too , but what people didn’t know about me didn’t hurt them. I appeared human. Although, I am not. At any moment if I truly desired, though, I could turn into my real self. My real dragon self.

Yes, that’s right. Dragon. I am a dragon. We live in another realm, not unlike your own. Except the primary species in our realm are dragon-shifters.

Everything you’ve heard about dragons is probably true. We fly, breathe fire, are loud and a bit scaly. What you don’t know is that we have magic both in our human and dragon forms. All dragons are capable of different kinds of magic; the type of magic you wield relates to the color of your dragon skin, and we exist in every color of the rainbow right down to silver and gold. My grandfather, an Elder in our home kingdom of Anarach because of his age, is silver. In his dragon form, his skin gleams like a pocketful of coins in a fountain, and he can use light magic which is beneficial in healing. Golden dragons also heal, but can harness the wind as well. My brother is a

red dragon, and he is a fire user; my parents are black and yellow and wield powerful arcane magic and air magic respectively. A dragon for every color and a place for their magic in our society. Well, everyone except me.

All because I share my color with Cyril the Mad, a powerful dragon who was greatly respected until he lost his mind and was exiled by the King and Queen of the Court at that time. No one knows what drove him to madness, but he committed grievous crimes with his power against dragons in a nearby village. Deeds rumored to be so terrible that the law forbade talk of Cyril and his kind. Over the centuries, stories of Cyril and his powers faded into myth and legend. Until another of his kind was born. Another pink dragon. Me.

Pink dragons? I know. I mean… really, it’s ridiculous sounding. It’s a color mutation, apparently. It doesn’t exactly sound scary or intimidating as one expects a dragon should be. But Cyril was a pink dragon and the commonly held opinion is that something about the gene gifted him with immense power while cursing him with insanity. So it is assumed that any others of his kind will be the same: batshit crazy. And that’s what they expect of me- the last remaining pink dragon, the only one of my kind. Rare, ridiculed and despised. But unlike Cyril, I have no magic, I cannot fly, and I don’t even breathe fire. So how can I be a threat to anyone? Nobody seemed to care about that, though. There wasn’t a day back home that I didn’t face disdain and torment. Other drakes—our term for adolescent dragons—wanted nothing to do with me. My parents wanted nothing to do with me; I was a hindrance to their reputations. They were utterly convinced they’d be ruling Anarach and be King and Queen by now had it not been for the taint of shame my birth had left on their standing.

The only two souls that had shown me love and kindness were my brother, Braeden, and my grandfather. A few years ago, on my legal adult birthday back home in Anarach, I took the nearest portal I could find on the outskirts of our village, Green Knoll, and it took me here, to Pineville, Minnesota. With the help of a rogue orange dragon I obtained a last name, documentation and everything else that would be essential for me to live as a typical human in the United States. Coming into the realm of humans, I found it ironic that pink was stereotypically a color signifying weakness and girlish fantasy. You know, princesses, frilly dresses, that sort of thing. Perhaps it was a twist on the stigma that had carried over somehow from the dragon world. Of course, humans like Kit, and heroines in movies, proved to me time and time again that femininity wasn’t weak and pink could equal strength. Pity the same didn’t ring true for this pink dragon.

Back in my birth realm, I am known as Leorah e’na Miradoste. Loosely translated it means “Leorah, daughter of Miradoste,” although it would sound very different in the dragon tongue; rough and guttural to human ears. Amongst humans, I’m Leorah James. It’s the name I prefer. Leorah James; an ordinary human girl with long, strawberry blonde hair, and green eyes. I am small as a dragon and whereas most dragons are tall and lithe in their human form; I am short and curvy with a larger than average chest, wide hips and a slightly soft stomach. No washboard abs for me—but I didn’t desire them. I can shift at a moment’s notice into my dragon form, but I can also live comfortably as a human. On the surface, I smelled, sounded and functioned the same as the people around me, set apart only by my mark.

Every dragon has a mark, resembling a tattoo, somewhere on their body. That mark is individual to them. Dragons in Anarach typically had Celtic symbols, dragon outlines with knotwork on them, in the color of their dragons. Mine was a round dragon, outlined in Celtic weaving with more intricate work in the middle and it was of course, pink. I knew the likelihood of anyone recognizing it as anything other than a tattoo or a birthmark even, was slim, but just in case I wore my long hair down in a thick braid down my back. Paranoia wasn’t a typical dragon trait, but given my upbringing I had acquired it as a necessary skill along with sarcasm, bitterness and a penchant for all things geeky.

Fated Magic
The Fated Saga Book 2



No one can outrun their destiny, but just whose destiny is she running

from?

Dragon-shifter Leorah James has everything she ever wanted. Friends. Magic.
The ability to fly. And the promise of more romance than she can handle.

But with her newfound power comes responsibility far greater than Leo

ever imagined.



As darkness infects the very heart of Anarach, Leo and her companions

must leave the sanctuary of Castle Danger and face their worst fears.

Betrayal, loss, action and adventure- Leorah is in for one hell of a

ride.

Nobody said being the hero would be easy but is Leo strong enough
to play the part?


Goodreads * Amazon



Fated Hope
The Fated Saga Book 3



Leorah James grew up in a kingdom of dragon-shifters; friendless, and

considered useless, with no magic. All because of age-old ideas, and

fear towards what they didn’t understand.

Now, she’s back in Anarach, in a position she never thought possible: a

queen, bonded to the gorgeous Maxxus, with extraordinary magic;

ruling over the kingdom that once shunned her very existence. Now,

Leorah and Maxxus must bring the kingdoms together to try and

strengthen everyone against the mysterious foe up against them.




The very thing that set her apart from her kingdom could be the very

thing to save them all, if only they quell their fear and let her.

Some might consider Leorah a hero, given everything she’s been through

and everything that stands before her. But, is she heroic enough to

give everyone hope?

 

**Author’s note**
The romance intensifies in this third edition of The Fated Saga and is

recommended for readers 18+ only.


Goodreads * Amazon




Sariah Skye physically resides in southern Minnesota with her husband, two

kids and a dog (so really…3 children) but mentally her head is in

the clouds dreaming of anything that doesn’t require adulting.
When not writing she’s probably geeking out watching Star Trek, playing

World of Warcraft, reading yet another fantasy book or staying up way

too late. She’d love it if you dropped her a line at Facebook or

Twitter but be prepared…she’s a nictofiliac so be patient for a

response while her eyes adjust to the light of day and beware of

sarcasm. It helps to throw her chocolate or glitter first before

engaging. Wine is also acceptable…but not to throw. Hand it over

gently.

Facebook * Twitter * Amazon * Goodreads



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Filed under: Giveaways, Guest Posts Tagged: guests, paranormal, romance

Entangled Summer by Michele Barrow-Belisle

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Entangled Summer
by Michele Barrow-Belisle
Genre: NA Paranormal Romance



She’s done everything to forget.
He’ll do anything to help her remember.

They say our dreams mask secrets.
Secret desires.
Secret fears.
Secret truths.

20 year old Nora Dultry’s dreams hide even more. They’re a gateway to

the man of her dreams, and an escape from her painful past. She’s

fantasized about him for years, and when he mysteriously walks into

her summer teaching gig, she never dreamed she’d question whether he

was the one she truly wanted.

But her former fling Troy Bellisaro doesn’t just own Wanderlust

Academy…he’s her boss, he still has her heart strings tied in

knots—and he’s hiding secrets of his own.

One of them will be her dream come true. One, her waking

nightmare.

Untangling the truth could make this dream, her last.

“Humans are the only creatures on earth, whose emotions are
irrevocably entangled with their memories.”

Add to Goodreads
Amazon * Kobo
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The red velvet curtains parted and the lights dimmed. It was only a preview, a way to give the students an idea of how all of the elements came together to make a whole production. The music, lighting, voice acting and of course the marionettes… the part he’d given me, and the one thing of the three I knew the least about.

“You’ve got this Nora.” Troy reassured me. “Just keep moving your hands, and don’t let your strings get caught.”

So that’s what I did. Or what I tried to do. I held my puppet next to his. He danced his in a two-step, to the delight of our young audience. I wiggled the sticks like I’d been shown. Immediately my puppet tripped over both of its feet and hurled uncontrollably into Troy’s. It was as if I was dancing on stage next to him myself. Equally awkward, and totally embarrassing. The snickers and giggles grew into an uproar of laughter.

Troy groaned. “Thought you said you knew how to do this.” He moved behind me, the full length of his body sliding against me as he did. A tingle rippled down my spine.

I looked up over my shoulder at him. “No, you said, I knew how. I said I was all thumbs.”

He glanced down, his face a mere inch from mine. “How is your thumb?”

“Fine.”

“And…” he scanned me from head to toe, “the rest of you.”

“Also fine.” I blushed, remembering the way he’d pulled my bruised thumb to his lips, before he pulled my lips to his lips, and then…

He tugged. I tugged. Until all that remained was a tangled mess of strings and bodies. Wooden bodies.

“Perfect.” He deadpanned. “You didn’t want strings, well, we’re entangled now aren’t we.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. Either way, he was right. We were entangled. And there were most definitely strings attached.

A dreamer at heart, Michele Barrow-Belisle has always lived with one

foot in this reality and one foot in another, one of her own

imagining. So it follows that she would grow up to write about and

sculpt the characters from those enchanting worlds she knows and

loves so well. As a fan of everything romantic, her young adult

novels are populated with witches and vampires and faeries. Michele

resides in southern Canada with her hubby and son who indulge her

passions for writing, reading, lattes, and most of all

chocolate.



She also loves shoes.

Did we mention the chocolate?

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Filed under: Giveaways, Guest Posts Tagged: guests, paranormal, romance

What’s Stopping You?

I used to be a fan of The Walking Dead. I say “used to” because I thought the first 5-ish seasons were pretty good: solid storytelling, good characters, believable drama. But then things started to go off the rails. I decided at the end of last season (season 7) that I wasn’t going to watch it anymore because it had gotten so tedious that watching it felt like a chore. And watching a TV show shouldn’t feel like something I HAVE to do. This pains me because Jeffrey Dean Morgan is one of my favorite actors, and I’m sorry, but I love Negan. However, he was the only bright spot in what had become, at least to me, a mind-numbing, pointless story with way too many characters and far too many wooden actors.

The main problem, however, is that I can no longer suspend disbelief. No, not because of zombies, or a post-apocalyptic world, or even because their CGI has inexplicably gone from awesome to amateurish. It’s because I can no longer accept the character’s motivations. Without spoiling too much, I will tell you that the bad guy (Negan) has the ambiguously good guys by the throat, because he rules all the habitations near his own outpost, and makes everyone bow to him and give him their stuff.

[image error]You could grab a Bugatti if you want to. They’re free now! Just go!

Okay, but…you literally now live in a world without boundaries. Money, borders, and laws no longer exist, nor does 90% of the human population. You could pack your crap in the first working car you find (or just pick up more crap as you go) and drive away. The reason for staying is a weak “but we found a community and a home we can defend!” (from the zombies). Well, why don’t ALL of you just pack your stuff and drive literally 100 miles in any direction, find a new place to live that you can defend, and this problem won’t exist? Just move away from the bad guy. Nothing is stopping you.

That’s why I quit watching. And thus, we come to today’s writing lesson.

If you want to trap your characters in a situation, you better cover all the exits. Ask yourself “Why don’t they just…?” Make a list of why don’t they justs, and make sure you can answer them in a way that would make sense to a reasonable person. The answer to every item on the list should be “Because of very terrible reason.” Peril ramps up the tension in a story and makes the plot, but you have to make sure the person can’t just drive away from that peril.

No matter what kind of mess you drop your characters in–physical danger, a bad relationship, a struggle with themselves–it shouldn’t be easy for them to escape. They can’t stay in the situation for some weak reason, either. If you’re living next door to a maniac, but you live in a world where money doesn’t exist and empty houses fill every street, your reason for staying next door to the maniac can’t be because you like the carpet in the living room too much to leave. Sure, if the maniac kidnaps your kid you’re going to stay and fight, but once you get your kid back, screw the carpet and run for the hills.

As I said above: cover all the exits. Don’t give your characters a way out until they make their own way out. That’s a story. We want to see characters fighting to overcome something and figuring out how to get out of the trap the author has placed them in. Make sure their cell is not like in the old-timey comedies where they could just slip between the bars if they wanted to.

Trap ’em good!

Filed under: Monday Blogs Tagged: advice, tv shows, writing

Tempting Irish by C.M. Seabrook

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Tempting Irish
Wild Irish Book 2
by C.M. Seabrook
Genre: New Adult Romance
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One rock god. One girl from his past. One ocean that can’t keep them apart.

I’ve been in love with Owen Gallagher since I was twelve years old.
Before the world knew his name.

Even though it’s been years since I’ve been back to Ireland, I never

forgot my Irish crush. The boy who saved me from his bully of a

brother is now a dark, sexy, tattooed rock star who shreds the guitar

like a true master.

A night of anonymity.

One night to live my forbidden fantasies.

He’ll be furious when he finds out my true identity. But I’m not the same,

shy little girl he remembers, and I have every intention of tempting

my own Wild Irish.

Dreaming about a rock god is one thing, but I’m chasing that dream across an

ocean.

Goodreads * Amazon

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I’m going to hell.

I didn’t bring her here for this. Didn’t mean to kiss her. To touch her. But now that I am, I can’t stop. My mouth travels down the curve of her jaw, along her slender neck, breathing in her intoxicating scent.

I try to reel myself back. But her own need saturates the air around us, mixing with mine like a spark to a powder keg.

I want the girl.

Crave her.

I’ve already had a taste and it only increased my appetite. But if there was ever a definition of off limits, it’s her.

I don’t need a complication like Bree in my life. And that’s exactly what she is – a sweet, tempting, irresistible complication.

“Jeezus, Bree,” I growl, raking my teeth across the sensitive flesh below her ear and feeling her tremble against me. “What are ye doing to me?”

She lets out a whimper when I tug slightly at her hair.

“You said-”

“Forget what I said.” I cup her jaw, searching her face, seeing uncertainty and desire vacillating across her features.

She’s unhinged something inside of me. That primal instinct to possess and protect. And hell, if it doesn’t scare the shit out of me. But, I also know that if I don’t see where this can go, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
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Amazon

bestselling author C.M. Seabrook writes hot, steamy romances with

possessive bad boys, and the passionate, fiery women who love them.

Swoonworthy romances from the heart!


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The Mistakes of Youth

I started writing when I was 13-14, as a freshman in high school. I started in part because I idolized Stephen King and wanted to emulate him, and in part because I wanted to impress my friends. Despite the fact my early writing was as bad as you would expect from a 14 year-old, and my reasons for doing it were rather superficial, there must have been something in it, because I kept doing it. I also found encouragement from friends and teachers who read my work, which fueled my fire. So, there must have been potential hiding somewhere in that awful muck.

However, it would be years before I had something published, and many more before I became substantially published and on track to actually make a career of it, which was (and is) the ultimate dream. I made some horrible mistakes, and had many, many missteps during that time. I’ll share some of them here today in the hope I might divert others from them. Some are really specific instances, and some are general overall.

The “don’t be like me” list of writer mistakes I’ve made:

Cockiness. Hoo boy, was I ever over-confident and sure of myself in the early years of my writing, despite having no real experience or ability yet. I compare it to how some of us thought we knew everything as teenagers, but looking back as adults we could cringe ourselves into orbit over the things we did. I like to tell myself this happens because if humans are empowered by overconfidence to plunge into new things, they’re able to overcome the timidity that holds us back from the unknown. Ha! I tell myself that, anyway. I thought I was the best writer on earth, an unrecognized genius, sure to be a shining star one day. The funny thing is, it was actually learning more and honing my ability that made me humble and teachable. It wasn’t until I knew things that I realized I barely knew anything.[image error]
Failing hard at basic things. I was gifted this typewriter sometime in my youth (good lord I feel old, they’re calling it ‘vintage’). When I was about 15 or 16, I typed out a story on it and sent it to a magazine. The problem was, the ribbon was crap, the keys stuck, and every single ‘e,’ ‘d,’ and ‘b’ was filled in with ink. They sent the story back to me and said they wouldn’t even consider reading it until I typed it out on a properly functioning typewriter. I was so offended.
Fishing in the wrong spots. For much of my early twenties, I was a horror writer, and I sent stories off to ‘zines. Those of you who are old enough, do you remember ‘zines? They were slapdash, low circulation, overpriced magazines full of fiction and art that could go out of business in the blink of an eye. My first ‘acceptance’ was from a vampire ‘zine and it folded before the story was even published. I should have been looking higher, at more prestigious magazines, and trying to obtain legit publications and build myself as a writer, working my way up through the ranks. Instead, I was crying over the fact that the whole twenty people who would have read my awful short story wouldn’t get to.
Writing in genres I couldn’t write in. As I said, I was a horror writer in my early twenties. Then, in my mid-twenties I went through a very intense, random and bizarre religious phase. Actually, it was probably more a ‘spiritual’ phase, but suddenly I couldn’t morally and personally write horror anymore. So, I started writing science fiction instead. I am not a science fiction fan. I wasn’t then, I’m not now. I didn’t read or watch science fiction beyond Star Trek. What on earth possessed me? I wrote several really BAD science fiction stories and submitted them to contests. Are you shocked to hear I got an honorable mention in one? Hand to God. I don’t know how this happened, I’m thinking maybe there were only like four stories in the contest and mine was the fourth. Then the phase passed and I went back to writing horror. Let’s never speak of this again.
Being oversensitive. For a long time, every rejection was a knife to the gut and every valid criticism made me defensive. I suppose we all go through this, but damn. Would you like to read the story of how I dramatically “gave up writing” after a very valid criticism of my awful, inexperienced writing? I promise you’ll laugh.
Not studying hard enough. Early on, I took a Writer’s Digest writing course. This was an over-expensive opportunity to work with a ‘real writer’ and hone my writing skills. I had to write a short story over the course of the class, send it off to this ‘real writer’ every month, and he would critique my work and progress. It wasn’t very helpful, and of course the story was never completed let alone published. But I could have done a lot of studying for free and got the same kind of education. I could have read books in my genre and learned how to construct stories through the work of others. I could have taken legit real-world classes (the internet wasn’t a thing then) and beefed up my knowledge. Instead, I kept writing more and more bad stories and insisting I already knew it all. Guess what? I did not know it all.
Ignoring myself. I’ve talked before about how, like many elitist writers, I used to turn my nose up at romance. I didn’t think it was legit literature despite the fact the romance genre is a bigger seller and industry juggernaut than almost all other genres combined. The thing is, romance was ALWAYS part of my stories, and I was always inclined to write romance. But I struggled against it. Now, would you looky there–I write romance and I’m ACTUALLY starting to make a career of my writing. It’s almost like I should have stopped being stupid and short-sighted ages ago and it wouldn’t have taken me into my 40’s to get to this point.
Spending too many years in the wrong place. I’ve mentioned this several times, but if you haven’t heard before, I used to be a fanfiction writer. A hugely popular fanfiction writer, if I may brag a bit (know what a is?). I will not tell you what fandoms, though some of you who read this already know. I cut my teeth on fanfiction, and honed my skills, and got tons of feedback. The problem is, I cut my teeth too long. I should have tried transitioning into standard fiction writing long before I did, instead of staying where I knew everyone was happy to stroke my ego and I was safe from actual critics. I should have been branching out and trying to start my career. I don’t regret using it to make myself a better writer, or the experiences I had then, but I should have been working on other stuff, too.

I made a lot of mistakes, but you don’t have to be like me. You don’t know everything. You should learn as much as you can. Don’t take rejection and criticism too personally. Don’t deny who you are or try to be something you’re not. And for goodness sakes, make sure your printer doesn’t screw up your manuscript before you send it off (does anyone still send hard copies)? BE SMARTER THAN ME!

Filed under: Behind The Scenes Tagged: advice, me, personal life, writing

Ghost Slayer by Majanka Verstraete

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[image error]Ghost Slayer

Majanka Verstraete

ISBN : 9781947649033

Release date: 24 April 2018

Genre: New Adult Paranormal

Publisher: Fire Quill Publishing

Twenty-one-year-old Kaelyn has spent half her life hunting ghosts and killing them. But she’s not like the other ghost hunters who have to rely on spells and curses to banish ghosts back to where they came from, hoping that they don’t come back. When Kaelyn kills a ghost, they stay dead.

But in Mortimer Hall, a behemoth of a house, Kaelyn is about to face the most powerful and life-threatening ghost she ever met, and what she doesn’t know is that the ghost has been waiting just for her…

Goodreads

Excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

The toddler’s wicked laugh echoed throughout the basement, bounced off the walls, and traumatized my ear drums. I cringed and strengthened my grip on the dagger until my knuckles turned white.

Despite the danger I was in, I had trouble staying focused. Today had been a long day. After spending six hours cooped up in class trying to wrap my mind around criminal psychology, I had spent another two hours in the library crouched over dusty newspapers with pages yellowed from age, trying to find out as much as I could about the specter I’d dubbed the Main Street Basement Ghost. Then I headed to Main Street, to an apartment building straight out of a post-apocalyptic movie, and here I was, face to face with the ghost.

Well, maybe not face to face, since the toddler-ghost was playing a game of hide and seek.

The toddler laughed, and I followed the noise, farther into the darkness. I’d brought a flashlight, but the batteries had died about five minutes into the investigation. Usually, I had moonlight to guide me, but in this windowless basement, stark darkness was the only thing greeting me as I groped my way through stacks of boxes, mannequins, and things better left forgotten.

I caught a glimpse of a white, glowing figure moving in the back of the room. Knocking over several boxes, I rushed to the spot as fast I could.

The darkness worked as a disadvantage for the ghost. He was crouched behind a tower of books — nevertheless, the eerie glow surrounding him gave him away. In the daytime, he would’ve been much harder to spot, but in the darkness, he was a glowing beacon.

I stopped in front of the pile of hard covers and glanced at the glow resonating from behind it. The eerie light barely reached my torso. Getting rid of adolescent ghosts was never easy and a pang of guilt tugged at my heart. But this kid had killed three people already, I reminded myself.

At that moment, the kid launched himself at the books, toppling them over, crushing me. I raised my hands to my head for protection while I was continuously bombarded, trying to keep my balance at the same time.

He towered over me. His dark hair was disheveled, and he wore nineteenth- century clothes stained with blood. His head tilted slightly to the right. Half of it had been cut off, as if whoever had decided to rid the kid of his head, didn’t have the stomach to complete the job. His eyes were dark and hollow, and they stared at me with unmatched venom.

Leave me alone.

His lips didn’t move, but his voice was clear as day. Hatred glistened in his eyes. He snarled and launched himself at me with his fingers clawed, growling like an animal.

I took a step back and braced myself for the collision. His full weight hit me right in the chest, and I fell backward. I grabbed the ghost and held him away from me, while he gnarled, bit, spat, and clawed at me.

Go away!

Drops of sweat dripped down my forehead, and blood oozed where he scratched me. I grimaced and pushed the ghost away with all my strength. It flew several meters backward, but instead of dropping to the floor, it hovered mid-air. Its eyes sparked with black flames, and it hissed at me.

Guess I pissed it off for real this time.

I scrambled around on my knees in search of the dagger I dropped to the floor when the ghost knocked me over. The search was proving useless as I couldn’t spot it anywhere.

The ghost’s mouth grew large enough to swallow a small person, forming a black, gaping hole. Its eyes became small slits, like a snake’s. It launched at me again, as fast as a leopard.

Running was out of the question. This thing, zigzagging toward me, its face the material of nightmares, was a lot faster than I was.

My gaze darted left and right, still in search of the dagger when I caught the silver sparkling in the ghost’s glow. It was behind him. Just my luck.

Lunging up, I ran forward toward the ghost, dropped to the floor, and dove below the phantom, straight at the dagger. My sleeve ripped and I bumped my elbow into the wall, but at least I had my dagger back.

The ghost howled like a wounded animal. Turning around, it pulled back its arm and swung at me. I grabbed it mid-swing with my left hand, clenching my teeth as I used all my strength to stop the attack, and with my right hand, I plunged the dagger straight into its belly.

The spirit and I stared at each other for a beat. He screamed, a sound that went through marrow and bone. Then he vanished.

Relieved, I stumbled backward. My knees were wobbly, and I had to hold on to the wall for support. Taking deep breaths, I tried to steady my heartbeat. With the ghost gone, the basement had gone from illuminated-by-eerie-ghost-glow to pitch black darkness.

When I’d recovered a little, I fumbled through the pockets of my jacket until I found my cell phone. The battery was almost dead, but I was hoping it would hold out until I got out of here.

Groping my way through the darkness, I bumped into a million different things, and almost suffered a heart attack when I ran into a life-sized mannequin. It seemed to take forever before I managed to make it out of the basement. I slipped twice on the stairs going up, and by the time I reached the hallway, I felt as if I’d just survived a year in Alcatraz. There were lights in the hallway, although they were on emergency setting; they went on and off every few seconds.

My backpack still lay where I’d left it, right outside the entrance to the basement. I slumped down against the wall, opened up my backpack and grabbed a bottle of water. I drank half of it, and poured the other half over my head in an attempt to cool off. Next, I pulled out my pocket mirror and inspected the damage to my face. Green eyes, thin, black eyebrows, a straight nose, high cheekbones, a small bruise under my left eye, and a cracked lip stared back at me. But at least my teeth seemed fine, and the bruise was small enough to cover up with concealer. My hair was a mess, though.

I loosened my ponytail and ruffled through my long, black hair. With caution, I searched my scalp inch by inch, looking for wounds. I had hit my head pretty hard the first time the ghost launched at me. But apart from a growing bump at the back of my head, the rest seemed fine.

My arms hadn’t been so lucky. They were covered in scratch marks where my sleeve had ripped. Another jacket ruined. My ankle throbbed and my head hurt, but all in all, the damage was minimal. Which was to be expected, considering that the Main Street Basement Ghost was a piece of cake compared to some of the other specters I’d fought.

I stumbled a little when I got back up. After hoisting my backpack over my shoulder, I walked through the hallway and out of the abandoned apartment building.

Another ghost had been sent straight back to the afterlife, and another paycheck awaited my collection tomorrow. My employer would be glad his building was ghost free, and that he could now safely find new tenants for the fourteen apartments above the haunted basement. As for me, I was glad I’d be able to pay the rent for another month, and buy some food for the table. A girl had to eat.

About the Author:

[image error]Author Majanka Verstraete has written more than twenty unique works of fiction. A native of Belgium, Majanka’s novels explore the true nature of monsters: the good, the bad, and just about every species in between. Her young adult books include the acclaimed Mirrorland (YA Dark Fantasy) and Angel of Death (YA Paranormal) series of novels.

Majanka is currently developing a new YA shifter series with a fresh take on fierce female detectives called THE ADVENTURES OF MARISOL HOLMES which will be published by Monster House Books in October 2018.

Her NA paranormal romance series, Ghost Slayer, has been picked up by Fire Quill Publishing. The first volume will be released in 2017.

When she’s not writing, Majanka is probably playing World of Warcraft or catching up with the dozens of TV series she’s addicted to.

Website: http://majankaverstraete.com/

Blog: http://majankaverstraete.com/blog/

Newsletter: http://majankaverstraete.com/newsletter/

Twitter: @iheartreads

Amazon Profile: http://amazon.com/author/majankaverstraete

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormajankaverstraete/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/majankaverstrae/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/majankaverstraete/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4813098.Majanka_Verstraete

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Filed under: Guest Posts Tagged: books, guests, paranormal

It’s Not All Bad

I spend a lot of time on this blog warning new and up-and-coming writers about all the things that writing isn’t. I’ve told you that you probably won’t get rich and famous, you might not even make enough money to pay one bill, let alone all the bills. I’ve told you that you’re far more likely to get rejected than accepted. I’ve told you that even with multiple books published, you still have to do a lot of jumping up and down and waving your arms to get noticed. I’ve told you how hard, and frustrating, and depressing it can be.

And all those things are true, but perhaps I’ve been a bit of a Negative Nancy, too. If writing is so AWFUL, why on earth do so many of us continue to do it? It can’t be all bad, right? No, it’s not.

I remember when I was pregnant with my son. As I got bigger and bigger and it drew closer to time for his arrival, I became more and more anxious and terrified about what it would be like to have him. One hears so many birth horror stories, and it’s hard not to focus on the bad things when you’re scared. My female relatives were morbidly happy to tell me throughout my pregnancy the awful things they’d experienced during labor. It started to feel like a sense of impending doom, something dreadful looming on the horizon that I couldn’t escape.

[image error]Then, at a family gathering, I sat beside my grandmother–well, she was only sorta my grandmother, as my family tree is quite tangled–and this was a woman who had four children of her own. I don’t even remember how the subject came up, but she took my hand and said, “Listen, if childbirth was really that bad, no woman would ever have a second child, now would they? Let alone more than that!”

This was the most comforting thing I could hear at the time, and it calmed my nerves considerably.

If writing was so bad, no one would continue to do it. These are the good things about writing:

It gives me a sense of purpose. Writing has been my ‘calling’ for as long as I can remember. It gives me direction and focus, even when life is rough or difficult. When I write, I feel the most like myself. I feel like I’m not wasting time or should be doing something else. Writing gives me peace, and happiness, and calm, and it doesn’t matter if it gets published or not, because that feeling will still be there when I write. Writing makes all the negative stuff in my brain shut off.
It’s something all my own. No one can take writing away from me. Being a writer is such an integral part of my personality that you couldn’t remove it and still have the same person. But that’s the good part–no one can remove it. Yes, I know there’s lots of horrific accidents that could physically prevent me from writing again, but let’s pray those things stay in the realm of the improbable.
It gives others happiness. We don’t just write stories for ourselves–we write them to share with others, and to evoke an emotional response in them. Humans need stories. They need a distraction from reality. We writers are the people who get the privilege of providing that, even if it’s only to a few. Every story you write is a gift to others, as well as to yourself.
Community. Writers are solitary creatures, as the act of writing is a pretty lonely one. We sit by ourselves over our keyboards for hours, typing out our hallucinations. But when the writing stops, we like to connect with each other. Writers like to share their joys and sorrows, their triumphs and defeats. There’s nothing like talking to another writer and nodding in agreement as you commiserate. There’s lots of places to talk to other writers, from blogs and online communities, to offline writer’s groups and conferences. We’re all an anxious, fragile, but brave bunch.
The joy of holding my own work in my hands, even if no one else reads it. Here’s something very important to remember: it doesn’t matter how many people hold a copy of your book, as long as you get to. Whether it’s a hardcover/paperback or just a Kindle screen, there’s something powerful and satisfying about seeing the physical manifestation of your hard work. And it doesn’t matter who else reads it because you DID it, and it exists forever now.

There’s a lot of joy in writing. Don’t be frightened when you see more seasoned writers griping about the pain and pitfalls, because we’re just venting. We wouldn’t keep doing this if we didn’t get some real reward from it. What’s your writing joy?

Filed under: Behind The Scenes Tagged: advice, creativity, inspiration, me, wellness, writing

The Sea King by C.L. Wilson

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[image error]The Sea King

Weather Mages of Mystral

Book Two

C.L. Wilson

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Publisher: Avon Books

Date of Publication: 10/31/2017

ISBN: 9780062018984

ASIN: 0062018981

Number of pages: 608

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Winter King comes a breathtaking new tale of love and adventure set in the mystical land of Mystral

He wasn’t supposed to choose her…

Seafaring prince Dilys Merimydion has been invited to court the three magical princesses of Summerlea. To eradicate the pirates threatening Calberna and to secure the power of the Sea Throne, Dilys vows to return home with a fierce warrior-queen as his bride. But politics has nothing to do with unexpected temptation.

She didn’t dare wed him…

A weathermage like her sisters, Gabriella Coruscate’s gentleness exemplifies the qualities of her season name, Summer. Yet her quiet poise conceals dangerous powers she cannot begin to wield. Better to live without excitement, she reasons, than risk her heart and lose control—until an irresistible Sealord jolts her awake with a thunderclap of raw desire.

Until evil threatens everything they hold dear…

When pirates kidnap Summer and her sisters, Dilys begins a desperate quest to save the woman he loves. Only by combining his command of the seas with the unleashed fury of Summer’s formidable gifts can they defeat their brutal enemies and claim the most priceless victory of all: true love.

HarperCollins      Amazon        Google Play      Apple      B&N

Excerpt:

You can get off me now,” she ordered, mimicking Autumn’s haughtiest tone.

He didn’t move. Instead, he locked his gaze on hers and, with slow deliberation, laid his left wrist flat against her right.

Summer sucked in a breath and went rigid beneath him as a fresh surge of energy shot through her. Only this time, instead of an electric thunderclap that stunned the senses, this surge fired up every sensual cell in her body. If Dilys hadn’t been straddling her, she would have wrapped her legs around his waist and dragged him down atop her. As it was, she burned for him in the worst way. The way his nostrils flared and his tattoos went bright with a fresh burst of phosphorescent blue light only fanned the flames of her desire. She wanted to command him to touch her . . . to kiss her. Her gift of Persuasion flared, bringing the words and the magic to the tip of her tongue.

About the Author:

[image error]C.L. WILSON grew up camping and waterskiing across America, from Cherry Creek reservoir in Denver, CO, to Lake Gaston on the border of Virginia and North Carolina, to Georgia’s Lake Lanier and Lake Allatoona. When she wasn’t waterskiing and camping on family vacations, you could usually find her with a book in one hand and a sketch pad in the other—either reading, writing stories, or drawing.

Sometime around the ninth grade, she decided she was better at drawing her pictures with words than paints and charcoals, and she set aside her sketchpad to focus entirely on writing. Wilson is active in Tampa Area Romance Authors (TARA), her local chapter of Romance Writers of America.

When not engaged in writerly pursuits, she enjoys golfing, swimming, reading, playing video games with her children, and spending time with her friends and family. She is also an avid collector (her husband says pack rat!), and she’s the proud owner of an extensive collection of Dept. 56 Dickens and North Pole villages, unicorns, Lladro figurines, and mint condition comic books.

Wilson currently resides with her husband, their three wonderful children, and their little black cat, Oreo, in a secluded ranch community less than thirty miles away from the crystalline waters and sugar-sand beaches of Anna Maria Island and Siesta Key on Florida’s gulf coast.

Website: http://clwilson.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/clwilsonbooks

Twitter: https://twitter.com/clwilsonbooks

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1310735.C_L_Wilson

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Filed under: Guest Posts Tagged: books, guests, paranormal, romance