Guest Post/Blog Tour & Giveaway: The Seacrest by Aaron Paul Lazar

Words of Wisdom for New Writers
by Aaron Paul Lazar

1. The stages through which writers suffer in their careers are unique compared to most professions. Yet, strangely enough, these experiences can be startlingly similar from one writer to the next.

I’m reminded of this as yet another talented new writer has “found” me through the Internet and turned to me for advice. We’ve been exchanging regular email, and have covered questions from copyright to agents to query letters and beyond. I believe in helping writers whenever possible, and always try to make time for them when I can.

1. Why?

Because that’s what S.W. Vaughn, R.C. Burdick, Mary Emmons, and other generous folks did for me when I was just starting out.

I remember it so clearly. The angst-riddled beginning: when I’d just turned out my first novel and imagined it on the best seller’s list. I secretly hoped it would be snapped up in a few weeks, but feared at the same time how deluded I probably was, and feared I would be outed by the critics as a poor untalented slob who would never get into that elite club of “real writers.” Even though my family and friends said they loved my books... they had to say that? Right?

Time passes. More books are written. Agents get interested. Skills improve. And among the piles of rejections and torn hair and crumpled rewritten query letters, books eventually get sold. Maybe not to the big boys in the top five companies with all the promotional money, maybe not through agents who finagle six figure deals, but stuff happens and one’s readership expands.

People write to you from out of the blue. Regular people. Lovely people. People you befriend and learn from and cherish. People who say they’ve changed the way they read to their children because of your book, or who tell you they read to their dying mother and that your book comforted her. Those moments are supremely satisfying. And humbling. And so precious.

The first review comes in from a high profile literary critic. This one comes out of the woodwork, without solicitation. And he praises your work like you’ve never dared imagine. He GETS you. He really GETS you. And for the first time in your career, you feel totally validated. I’ll never forget that first time. His name was Thomas Fortenberry, and I remember the email, word for word. I opened it early on a dark Sunday morning–before dawn–and I lay in bed with the laptop humming with tears of joy on my cheeks.

It floats you to the moon, and validates you, and keeps you going. Until, of course, someone dares criticize your work. Of course, eventually it will happen, whether it’s a minor critique or a full blown trashing. You can’t make adoring fans out of everyone!

But thankfully, the really bad review ends up being written by someone with a humongous grudge on your first publisher. Someone who makes it his first order of business to drag down authors from that company. So, the sting lessens. A little.

The first book signing comes and goes. Becomes a frequent event. Book clubs contact you–and you get to meet gangs of your adoring fans. It feels good. Really good. Maybe it’s a sign that you don’t really stink as bad as you fear? (see, that angst still hangs around for years and years.)

Libraries contact you for event after event. And suddenly–here you are, having to turn down events you only dreamed of as a novice.

It’s rather strange, and equally wonderful. And so the story continues.

Coming fresh from dispensing advice to my new friend, I’ve jotted down a few thoughts to share. Words of wisdom, I guess you could say, or at least philosophies that seem to work for me. Here they are, in no particular order:

Keep writing, independent of which agent or publisher you have in your sights or in hand. Write as many books as you possibly can, and grow your skills as you grow your stable of books.

2. Improve your current proficiency–continually–by befriending a few good critique partners and by reading as much as you possibly can. Great writers will be your best teachers.

Don't quit the day job unless you have the luxury of doing so financially. Plan to work indefinitely until you’ve sold over 100,000 copies of your first book. Really. I'm serious. (which means most of us will keep the day jobs forever) Then, wait to see if your second book flops or follows the trend of the first. There are plenty of one hit wonders out there! After two “A” movies have been made (I’m picturing about a half a million for each), then you can consider quitting the day job. That is, if you’re good with money and feel as if you can keep churning out books or a very long time. Remember, if you’re–say fifty years old–you might need to support yourself (and maybe your spouse) for another fifty years. You’d need several million to keep yourself going at a reasonable income level for that long. So don’t quit the day job yet!

While you’re waiting for this elusive financial success, and you’re writing book after book, submit your manuscript and queries to all levels of publishers, but only to the top agents in NYC. (my humble opinion) Consider a small high quality press to get started, especially if the big publishers haven’t snapped you up in the first year, or five.

Don't define your success as a writer by how many books you sell or how fast your novel(s) get picked up. Or even IF they get picked up. Define your success by the readers you win over, whose lives you may even change as a result of your writing. Cherish their comments, and realize that if you can make one person smile, or brighten their day, or give them an armchair adventure that whisks them away from their troubles – then THAT may be worth it, and all you need to be validated.

Although it takes time away from your writing, build a strong, genuine network of writers with whom you can share, grow, learn, gripe, vent, and just share the common angst and jubilation that comes with this long process. Do the same with your readers who fall in love with your book(s) and are willing to help you along the way.

Start on the next book before the first is accepted anywhere. Don't look back. Keep going and follow your heart.

You must believe it "will" happen. It's just a matter of time. Although my books provide a nice subsidy at this point in my career, I firmly believe that some day my books will sell enough copies through my high quality small press (Twilight Times Books) to catch the attention of a movie maker or giant publisher with deep pockets. And now, with my new love story just released, I’m picturing the film for The Seacrest in full living color. ;o) And I know, I believe, I see in the future–eventually–that both of my series will some day be commonly found across the globe. Maybe it’ll be when I’m dead and gone, and perhaps my grandkids or great grandkids will benefit. That would be just fine with me!

***

About the Author:

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, writing books, and a new love story, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases THE SEACREST (2013), SANCTUARY (2014), and VIRTUOSO (2014).

http://www.lazarbooks.com
http://www.murderby4.blogspot.com

***

The Seacrest
by Aaron Paul Lazar
Romantic Suspense
Kindle | Paperback 


They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. 

Finn McGraw disagrees.

He was just seventeen when he had a torrid summer affair with the girl who stole his heart—and then inexplicably turned on him. Finn may have moved on with his life, but he’s never forgotten her.

Now, ten years later, he’s got more than his lost love to worry about. A horrific accident turns his life upside down, resurrecting the ghosts of his long-dead family and taking the lives of the few people he has left.

Finn always believed his estranged brother was responsible for the fire that killed their family—but an unexpected inheritance with a mystery attached throws everything he knows into doubt.

And on top of that, the beguiling daughter of his wealthy employer has secrets of her own. But the closer he gets, the harder she pushes him away.

The Seacrest is a story of intrigue and betrayal, of secrets and second chances—and above all, of a love that never dies.

***

Giveaway

For a chance to win one signed copy of Essentially Yours by Aaron Lazar (US)

and one e-book of Essentially Yours (International)

The winner will be announced at the end of the tour.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Book Spotlight & Giveaway: The Unholy by Paul DeBlassie

 

 About The Author

  Paul DeBlassie III, Ph.D., is a psychologist and writer living in Albuquerque who has treated survivors of the dark side of religion for more than 30 years. His professional consultation practice — SoulCare — is devoted to the tending of the soul. Dr. DeBlassie writes psychological thrillers with an emphasis on the dark side of the human psyche. The mestizo myth of Aztlan, its surreal beauty and natural magic, provides the setting for the dark phantasmagoric narrative in his fiction. He is a member of the Depth Psychology Alliance, the Transpersonal Psychology Association and the International Association for Relational Psychoanalysis and Psychotherapy.   

Author Links: 

 Website pauldeblassieiii.com 

 Blog pauldeblassieiii.blogspot.com 

 Facebook https://www.facebook.com/theunholy.deblassie?ref=hl 

 Twitter https://twitter.com/pdeblassieiii 

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/The-Unholy-A-Novel-ebook/dp/B00F8OEH70/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1381767109&sr=8-1&keywords=the+unholy+deblassie  

About The Book

Book Genre: Psychological Thriller

Publisher: Sunstone Press

Release Date: August 2013

Book Description:

A young curandera, a medicine woman, intent on uncovering the secrets of her past is forced into a life-and-death battle against an evil Archbishop. Set in the mystic land of Aztlan, "The Unholy" is a novel of destiny as healer and slayer. Native lore of dreams and visions, shape changing, and natural magic work to spin a neo-gothic web in which sadness and mystery lure the unsuspecting into a twilight realm of discovery and decision.    

Excerpt

Prologue

Lightning streaked across a midnight dark sky, making the neck hairs

of a five-year-old girl crouched beneath a cluster of twenty-foot pines in the

Turquoise Mountains of Aztlan stand on end. The long wavy strands of her

auburn mane floated outward with the static charge. It felt as though the

world was about to end.

Seconds later, lightning struck a lone tree nearby and a crash of thunder

shook the ground. Her body rocked back and forth, trembling with terror. She

lost her footing, sandstone crumbling beneath her feet, and then regained it;

still, she did not feel safe. There appeared to be reddish eyes watching from

behind scrub oaks and mountain pines, scanning her every movement and

watching her quick breaths. Then everything became silent.

The girl leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree. The night air

wrapped its frigid arms tightly around her, and she wondered if she would

freeze to death or, even worse, stay there through the night and by morning be

nothing but the blood and bones left by hungry animals. Her breaths became

quicker and were so shallow that no air seemed to reach her lungs. The dusty

earth gave up quick bursts of sand from gusts of northerly winds that blew so

fiercely into her nostrils that she coughed but tried to stifle the sounds because

she didn’t want to be noticed.

As she squeezed her arms around the trunk of the pine tree, the scent of

sap was soothing. Finally, the wind died down and sand stopped blowing into

her face. She slowly opened her eyes, hoping she would be in another place,

but she was not; in fact, the reality of her waking nightmare was more obvious

than ever.

Wide-eyed with fear at the nightmarish scene playing out before her,

she clung to the tree. In the distance, she saw her mother raising a staff with

both hands, her arm muscles bulging underneath her soaked blouse. Directed

straight ahead, her mother’s gaze was like that of an eagle, her power as mighty

as the winds and the lightning. The girl loved her mother and, through her

mind, sent her strength so that she would win this battle and the two of them

could safely go away from this scary place.

The girl turned to follow as her mother’s gaze shifted to an area farther

away and so dark that only shadows seemed to abide there. To and fro her

mother’s eyes darted before fixing on a black-cloaked figure who emerged from

behind a huge boulder surrounded by tall trees whose branches crisscrossed

the sky. He was much bigger than her mother, at least by a foot, and his cloak

flapped wildly as winds once again ripped through the mountains.

Swinging a long, hooked pole, the man bounded toward her mother like

a hungry beast toward its prey. His black cloak looked like the wings of a huge

bat as they reflected the eerie light of the full moon. As his pole caught the

moonlight and a golden glow bounced back onto the figure, the girl saw his

face with its cold blue eyes that pierced the nighttime chill. He seemed to grow

bigger with each step, and the girl’s heart pounded so loudly that she was sure

he would be able to hear it.

The stranger stopped a short distance from the girl. Crouched low

between rows of trees, trying to make herself disappear, she saw him clearly as

he threw his head back and let out a high-pitched cry like a rabid coyote. The

air crackled. Thunder struck. Lightning flashed. She was blinded and then

could see again.

Quick as a crazed coyote jumps and bites, the man struck her mother, his

black cape flapping wildly in the wind.

The girl leapt to her feet, her legs trembling, her knees buckling.

Straining to see through the branches, she was terrified.

The moon vanished behind dark clouds rolling overhead. Then came

a scream of terror that cut to the bone. Now the night was lit up again by

lightning flashing across the mountain range, and the girl could see the blackhooded

man hit her mother again and again.

Her mother crumpled to the ground and stopped moving.

The girl’s hand flew to her open mouth, stifling a scream.

The man stood over her mother, his long pole poised in the air, ready to

strike again.

A twig snapped in the forest, and the girl spun toward the sound, holding

her breath. Then she saw three gray forms slowly creeping toward her

through the darkness and recognized them as wolves. She was not afraid as

they encircled her, their warm fur brushing her skin. One after another, the

wolves lifted their snouts and looked into her eyes, each silently communicating

that she would be protected.

Her mother cried out again. The girl turned and saw her rising to her

feet, then striking the man’s chest with her staff.

As he batted his pole against her shoulders, her staff flew out of her

hands, landing yards away in a thicket of scrub oak.

Her mother screamed and blindly groped for it.

The girl jumped up, then stopped when the black-hooded figure looked

her way. Tears clouded her vision, and all she saw was darkness. Tears rolled

down her cheeks, dropping into the tiny stream of water running beneath the

tree she was clutching. She looked down and saw the dim reflection of her

frightened self.

As she peered through the trees to catch sight of her mother, a wailing

wind blew the man’s cloak into the air, making him again look like a monstrous

bat. Once more he swung his rod high and smashed it against the back

of her mother’s head. She saw and heard her mother’s body thump against the

hollowed trunk of the lightning-struck tree and slump to the ground. The evil

man bent over her mother’s limp body and howled.

Suddenly, the girl felt arms encircle her waist, and she was swept away,

deeper into the forest. She sobbed and at first let herself be taken because she

had no strength. But then she became angry and started pushing against the

arms carrying her, trying to escape and run back to her mother. She wanted to

make her mother well, and then this nightmare would stop and they could go

away.

“Hush now, child,” said a voice she recognized as that of her mother’s

closest friend. “The man cannot harm you, mijita, as long as you are with us.

We will make him think you are dead. But you must be very quiet. Ya no

llores,” the woman warned, raising a finger to her lips.

The woman then carried her into a dark cave illuminated by the light

of a single candle. The cave was frightening, with shadows of what appeared

to be goblins and demons dancing on the red sandstone walls. “I will return for

you soon. You will be safe here,” the woman said. The girl watched the woman

walk away, shivering as a breeze blew through the cave’s narrow passages.

Closing her eyes, she rocked back and forth—imagining herself safe in

her mother’s arms—then opened her eyes to the light of the full moon shining

through the mouth of the cave. The shadows on the walls were just shadows

now, no longer goblins and demons. As she slipped into a trance, images

flickered in her mind. She saw the woman who had brought her to this place

scattering pieces of raw meat around the open mesa where her mother had

struggled, helped by two other women the girl could not identify.

Suddenly, the scene shifted to a stone ledge jutting over the mesa, and

she heard the pounding footsteps of a man running toward the women. The girl

felt her heart race and her breathing quicken, afraid that the bad man would

spot them and kill them. Then the image shifted again, and she now saw on the

mesa three gray wolves circling the raw meat and the man walking away from

the granite ledge. As he left, she heard his thought: The child is dead.

     

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Author Interview: Chaos Bound by Rebekah Turner

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About the Author:

Rebekah lives in sunny Queensland and has worked in the past as a graphic designer. She now freelances when her kids are looking the other way. An avid writer since she could scrawl in her dad’s expensive encyclopaedias, she has progressed from horsey stories to tales of dark fantasy with lashings of romance and a sprinkling of horror.

Her vices include eating overpriced ice cream, over-analysing trashy 80s action and horror movies and buying stationery she just doesn’t need.

www.rebekahturner.net

@RbkahTurner

www.goodreads.com/author/show/6580834.Rebekah_Turner

https://www.facebook.com/rebekahturnerauthor

***


Do you plan everything or just let the story flow?

I’m a planner. Things don’t always work out the way I want, but I try to have guidelines and signposts for the direction I’m heading in.

Do your characters ever want to take over the story? 

Sometimes they surprise me and I LOVE it when that happens.

What is your favourite food?

Gourmet ice cream.

Are you a morning person or a night owl?

Morning.

Where do you dream of travelling to and why?

Germany would be nice. They’ve got some great food there. Not to mention the giant beer glasses.

Do distant places feature in your books?

Yes! My books, the Chronicles from the Applecross are set in a fantasy realm called the Weald.

Do you listen to music while writing?

Always. It draws me instantly to the right frame of mind.

Could you tell us a bit about your latest release?

Chaos Bound is book 2 in the Chronicles from the Applecross stories and a continuation of the misadventures of Lora Blackgoat, mercenary and smuggler, extraordinaire.

What have you learned about writing and publishing since you first started?

That writing buddies are worth their weight in gold and it’s worthwhile to learn the industry.

Is there anything you would do differently?

I would have taken professional development courses ten years ago.

Who, or what, if anything has influenced your writing?

The writers group I’m with has been a big influence for me, as we all push each other to meet deadlines, self imposed or not. We also talk about goals and work out how to achieve them, then get together for writing races.

Anything you would say to those just starting out in the craft?

Have a writing routine and a weekly or daily writing goal.

Study the craft through classes and workshops. Then study some more.

Join a writers centre and join a writers group.

Embrace revisions of your story and embrace it HARD.

Be savvy about the business of publishing and writing, as well as the marketplace and how your genre of choice sits in it.

What are three words that describe you?
Chaotic and forgetful.

What's your favourite book or who is your favourite writer?

One author who I love is JR Ward. She has a sublime talent of being able to combine sexy action with snappy prose.

Chaos Bound
by Rebekah Turner
Chronicles of the Applecross Book 2
Genre: Urban fantasy
Publisher: Escape Publishing
Date of Publication: 1 December 2013
ISBN: 9780857991072
Number of pages: 177
Word Count: 82,000

Book Description:

The long-awaited sequel to Chaos Born takes us back into the Applecross, where Lora faces increasing threats to her survival and her chance at love.

Lora Blackgoat — mercenary and smuggler — has only just recovered from the last threat on her life and hasn’t even begun to sort out the mess of having both a nephilim warrior and a reborn hellspawn as potential lovers. Work should be a refuge, but a job finding missing persons puts her in the crosshairs of a violent gang and a merchant with a taste for blood sport.

Reluctantly, Lora turns to the two men in her life for help. Roman — the nephilim — professes to be her soul mate and turns to her when he feels the darkness of nephilim madness descending. But though Lora is drawn to Roman, it is Seth, ex-lover and reborn hellspawn, who Lora must ultimately ask to protect those she loves. Can she trust Seth to save Roman and her adoptive family, or will this be a fatal mistake?

List of previous books if any

Chaos Born – Book 1 in the Chronicles of the Applecross

***

Book Spotlight: Love and the Zombie Apocalypse by Chelsea Bellingeri

Love and the Zombie Apocalypse
by Chelsea Bellingeri 
Genre:  Horror / Romance
Pages: 234
Amazon


Synopsis:

Seventeen-year-old Rachel Cole was ecstatic when her little sister Morgan left for science camp at the University of Michigan – anything that would get Morgan out of their horrible foster home for a few weeks.  Little did Rachel know that life as she knew it was about to change forever.

A suspected biological terror attack has spread over the northern half of the country causing the dead to reanimate and attack the living.  The sudden attacks have catapulted Middle America into an all-out war zone.  Zombies have swarmed the City of Flint and Rachel must battle through the infected streets to rescue Morgan.

Along the way, Rachel meets Cage Vance – the local star quarterback dealing with his own personal demons.  Rachel is immediately attracted to Cage, but who has time for love during the zombie apocalypse?  Can Rachel and Cage’s small group of friends survive the journey to Ann Arbor and rescue Morgan?  Or are they already too late?

About the Author:

Chelsea Bellingeri is the author of the best selling young adult series, New England Witch Chronicles. Chelsea received a Juris Doctorate from New York Law School in New York, New York in 2007, and a B.A. in Sociology, with a concentration in Criminal Justice, from the University of Tennessee in 2004. She lives in Tennessee with her husband, Joe, and their son, Jackson.

http://www.chelseabellingeri.com/

https://twitter.com/C_Bellingeri

https://www.facebook.com/ChelseaBellingeri

Book Spotlight: Knife's Edge by Matthew Wolf

The Knife's Edge
The Ronin Saga Book 1
by Matthew Wolf
YA Fantasy

Book Description

When legends come to life the world trembles from a single name.  Ronin.  Once-heroes from a different age, they wield element powers... wind, water, fire, stone, forest, sun, moon, flesh, and metal.

At the same time, a young man discovers his best friend with a sword in her stomach and dark wings sprouting from her back.  Guards rush onto the scene, accuse him of the act, and he is forced to flee.

In a new world without his memories, Gray must find his way amid legends and darkness, as he wrestles with an elemental power inside himself.

A power all too similar to the infamous Ronin...

Excerpt:

The Seven Trials

Vera inhaled the incense that burned in the brightly lit room.  For once she relished the scent and its hidden meaning.  On any other day she would complain beneath her breath about its putrid sting as she walked past the Oval Hall, watching as stands of people flocked and clamored to get nearer the great chambers.

Today, however, was different.  Today, the incense smelled sweet.

Her face glistened with clean sweat as she judged the others in the room, heads bent.  Seven women surrounded her.  Each stood on one of the seven points of the star of Magha.  The star itself was perfectly inlaid into the rare white marble floor with its veins of gold.  Each point stood for one of the elements of the great kingdoms.  Inlaid in the center of the star, was a large flame of red glass.  It was the symbol of the Citadel, and sat right beneath Vera’s feet.  All the elements were present, but one.  The forbidden element of wind was always conspicuously absent.

The women surrounding Vera breathed heavily as well, the sound resounding off the walls of the giant marble and gold chamber.  Their foreheads were speckled with the same sweat of strain.  Yet they stood backs straight, wearing similar looks of loathing.

They fear what they don’t understand, a voice echoed inside her head.

Vera took in their stares and noted their different strengths.  Merian stood on the emblem of flesh, Sara, water, Tamiko, earth, Resa, sun, Eliwyn, fire, and the others she did not know. The only thing they shared was that they were years older than her, and nearly all of them despised her.

With a portion of the spark Vera delved into her mind.  She twisted a strand of water with a thicker thread of light.  Any trace of dampness was sucked from her dress, like poison drawn from a wound as it was simultaneously straightened and smoothed—a useful trick she had learned.

A sudden stream of pain jolted Vera as if a small firework erupted within her brain.  She gasped and fell to her knees.  Looking up, she saw Merian had snapped the Link tight.  The Link was a connection of visible gold between her and the others, like a wagon-wheel’s spokes, stemming primarily from Merian.  For that mere moment, the Link between all eight women glowed brightly, dimming the sun’s radiance.

The other women gave Merian curious and not entirely disapproving looks.  All except one.  Eliywn looked at Vera with sympathy.  It was well known that the use of pain outside each individual Trial was strictly prohibited.

“Do not use the spark during the trials for anything but the trials themselves,” Merian snapped.  “At least not until we are done with you.”  The girl paused, lips pursed, as if she were thinking up something truly cruel to say.  “And I would save your energy if I were you.  You will need every morsel you can conjure to not fail miserably in the next Trial.”

Vera brushed her fall of auburn hair behind her ears and rose to her full height.  There was a fire in Merian she had not seen until now, and she nearly applauded the woman for showing her backbone.  Then she eyed Merian’s red robes.  The robes of a Reaver.  Vera looked around the room at each woman.  Each bore the robes of a full Reaver—a title Vera craved to hold more than air.

“Neophyte Vera, you have completed the Sixth Trial.  The final Seventh Trial will begin now.  You may proceed when ready,” Merian quoted line for line.

With the veil of obedience, Vera smiled thinly.  “As you wish, Reaver Merian.” Each woman looked like coiled desrah snakes ready to strike, and Vera grinned, inviting it.  Together, the women attacked.

Spokes of light flew forth, striking at Vera from all sides.  She threw up her hands, erecting a shield of light.  The spokes of light moved through her shield like water, racing towards her.  Too strong, she knew.  Seven Reavers could not be bested by any but an Arbiter in a match of raw power.  The Seventh Trial was not one of strength, but a test of spirit.  It was not meant to be won.

Vera summoned a shield of darkness.  It spread from her fingertips, curling and spreading in the air.  Her gaze narrowed like an arrow’s sight on Merian whose eyes blazed with hatred.  She unleashed her bottled rage and power with a scream, uncaging the tendrils of living darkness, but in the last minute wove threads of moon to disguise the power’s dark form.  The light and darkness collided with a powerful crash and an earth-shaking clap rattled the room.  The bars evaporated like mist.  Yet in the moment before their collapse, the darkness funneled up the spoke of light and sunk its teeth into the wielder of the Link.

The thunderclap of air blew the women back as it sent Vera to her knees.  She watched through a torrent of wind as robes and cloaks flapped wildly.

A foul smell like burnt hair made Vera cringe.  Yet outwardly, her face remained placid.  Resa, a bull-like woman, spoke, “Never has that test been countered with a shield of moon.  They are not entirely opposites, but somehow, it worked.  Truly remarkable and worth the coming ceremony—the youngest to pass the seven trials in history.  Congratulations, Reaver Vera.”

“Congratulations,” the other six said as one.  With the Link intact, their voices were a single hum.

“Merian, sound the chime,” Resa ordered.  “It is complete, the Citadel must know.  The ceremonies must commence. She has passed the Trials.”  She hadn’t noticed.  Neither had the others.  There was a stark silence.  The seven women’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, their feelings connected through the Link, Vera knew.  As one they looked to Merian.

The woman knelt, her wide-eyes brimming with horror and incredulity.  “My power is gone!” the woman shrieked, and then unleashed a bloody cry that sent chills down Vera’s back.

“Merian!”  The women rushed, swarming around her and dropping the golden glow of the link.

Resa was the first to Merian’s side.  She touched the sister’s forehead and recoiled with a gasp.  “I cannot heal her.  It is far beyond my skill.” Resa grabbed Tamiko.  “Take her to an Arbiter and quickly.  Perhaps they can grab the spark before it recedes too far and is gone completely.”

“She… it’s gone?  But how?”  Tamiko stuttered.

Vera smiled at the woman’s shock.  Like a wide-eyed doll, she thought.  She always thought Tamiko’s hair and face too done up to be attractive, though most of the men of the Citadel didn’t seem to mind.

“Stop asking questions and go!” Resa yelled.  The veins in her neck bulged as she threw an arm to the door.  Tamiko nodded, and bolted to get help.  Resa turned to her, the woman’s eyes blazed, pierced the crowds.

Come to me, Vera beckoned with wisp of a smile and Resa rose, moving towards her.  Her heavy steps reminded Vera of a cerabul before the charge, or one of the Devari guards stalking postures, which made her think of Kirin.  Behind the woman Vera saw others.  Curious, if fearful Neophytes flowed into the room, faces pale from the sound of Merian’s chilling scream.  Eliywn rushed to Vera’s side.  Resa approached and Eliywn straightened to her fullest height, which was a hand or two shorter than Vera.

Before Resa could speak Eliywn proclaimed in a rush, “She did nothing against the law of the Citadel, and she obviously didn’t mean—”

“Leave,” Resa seethed.  It was more forceful than if she had bellowed the word.

Eliywn swallowed, bristling as if slapped, but her soft face gained composure quickly, and she looked ready to respond when Vera touched her arm.  Elywin looked to her--the girl knows not when to quit, Vera thought with a wisp of a smile.  Ignoring Resa’s direct order would meet with serious punishment, for Reaver of three stripes vastly outranked Eliywn’s one.  Vera squeezed her friend’s hand secretly.  Eliywn frowned, but she understood and grudgingly took her leave.

“What was that?” Resa whispered, breathing fire.  The woman’s body practically shook with desire to hurt Vera, likely not even with the spark, but with pure, animal-like rage.  She would… thought Vera calmly.

“What was what?”  As she spoke, the spacious hall became more and more crowded, Neophytes and Reavers alike rushing to see the cause of the uproar.  With it, whispers spread like fire.

“Heresy,” Resa sputtered, but not so loud that others could hear.  “Merian might die, if she doesn’t, the spark inside her is shriveled and likely the spark is gone from her forever!  You desiccated her!”

The word gave Vera chills—a word far worse than any curse for a Reaver.  Desiccating meant being deprived and cut from the spark, like a still beating heart carved from one’s chest.

Vera responded with silence, returning the woman’s wrathful glare with a smooth face.  Words would clearly not affect some women, she knew, no matter how profound.  Resa snatched Vera’s brown robes, far swifter than she would have imagined, and pulled her forward to whisper coarsely in her ear, “If I ever, ever see anything like that again, Citadel law or not, I will personally pluck your haughty eyes from your head, without the spark.”

I was right, Vera thought smugly and she dipped her head, casting her eyes downward.  “Apologies Reaver Resa.  My power went beyond me,” she lied. “I will learn to control it.”  That much was truth.

The bull-like woman’s thick lips peeled back in an unattractive snarl, and her meaty fist at her side lifted, as if ready to strike Vera.  Then at last, she unfurled her grip and turned on her heel, robe whisking.  She stalked out of the chambers, following the two women who held the muttering, half-conscious Merian on a cloth stretcher.

Instead of satisfaction, Vera felt a note of pity as the woman was rushed out with her attending flock.  No one should suffer that, she thought.  A thousand deaths over that fate, any day.

Ignoring the eyes of others, Vera looked to the marble floor and saw scattered pieces of age-old mosaic windows, and shreds of priceless tapestries.  Each depicted grand scenes of the Lieon, the Great War.

Suddenly, Vera remembered.  Something else that was priceless waited in her room.  She had only just found it, and she itched to look upon the sword’s beauty again.  Besides, with the eyes of others hot on her back, Vera knew there would be no flood of cheers or joyous laughter today.  The incense had turned bitter.

With thoughts of the sword, Vera pushed her way through the whispering crowds of Neophytes, heading to her quarters.

***

Website: http://www.roninsaga.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/roninsaga
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RoninSaga
Amazon (kindle): http://www.amazon.com/The-Knifes-Edge-Ronin-ebook/dp/B00CAWXIPU/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17885222-the-knife-s-edge

Book Spotlight: Exit by Shane Flier

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Genre: YA, General Fiction, Contemporary
Publisher: Biblio Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-62249-142-1
Number of pages: 222
Word Count: 58,000
Cover Artist: Ekaterina Zagustina
Paperback & Ebook: Blio
Paperback: Amazon
Ebook: Amazon

Book Description:

"Did you know I spent the whole of my fifteenth year in my room?"

Briar’s impromptu, mid-afternoon confession stirs up distant memories of the lonely time she spent trapped in her home; suffering agoraphobia — fear of open spaces.  

Now it’s six years later.  

She’s free, but the year's isolation has left serious personality disorders; disorders which will resurface as she relates her own story, and that of those in her orbit; Melodie, a pretty valley girl who Briar desires to be, Justine, her oldest friend, who has her own dark secret, and Dermot, a man who thinks he's the reincarnation of Robin Hood — stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

Slowly Dermot begins to draw Briar into his ever-so-exciting world, but who is leading whom on their slow descent into crime? Duel periods of Briar’s life intertwine like a rope around her neck as her lost year begins to overtake the present. It leads her to the answer to one very simple question:      
   
“Is it what I always feared — am I losing my mind?”

Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wedQg_Y7dHE

Author Interview Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpANm1NRvkU




Excerpt Girl Talk 

“Did you know I spent the whole of my fifteenth year in my room?”

I sit in the trashed corner booth of an empty Indianapolis diner sipping Coke through a red and white striped straw and watch the reaction from my two friends.

We’ve been here, Melodie, Justine and I, talking, eating, and drinking for hours and we’re all in advanced stages of serious twenty-something afternoon collapse. It’s reached the time where you run out of trivial, conversational-type things to talk about, so you say something deep and personal instead.

Melodie lifts her head from the table and flicks ash haphazardly from her cigarette in the direction of an overflowing ashtray. “You’re kidding?” she asks.

“No, she isn’t,” Justine says. We’ve been friends since school, and she knows me very well.

Elbows all over the table I cup my palms around my chin and explain. “I suffered from agoraphobia. That’s what my doctors said. It sounds awful, but all it means is that I had an irrational fear of being in places or situations from which escape might be difficult in the event of a panic attack. So I avoided those situations. During my Dark Ages I left my bedroom only to eat and go to the bathroom.

“Basically I was worried about death. Abandonment. My health. My mother’s safety. The house catching fire. Food poisoning. Earthquakes. The environment. That kind of stuff.”

I tell Melodie and Justine all these things, and when I open my mouth the words just flood out, like I’ve been wanting desperately to speak them for so long. They sit and listen, perhaps too tired or too hot and bothered to do anything else. I tell them about the first time it happened... the first time I had a panic attack. When I was thirteen. One Saturday in a mall. I can remember the smell of doughnuts and ice-cream, and ferns. I remember ferns. And the sound of a radio playing that dumb Spandau Ballet song — “True” — boy do I hate that song!

“I was standing around, just hanging out with a bunch of my girlfriends, and this boy from my class, who I had, like, this incredible crush on, came up to me and said “Hi!”

“Those girls pushed me forward. I could hear them giggling behind me, saying ‘Briar’s in love’ and all that junk, and my body froze like a statue. I felt hot and sweaty. My heart was racing. I felt this numbness in my hands and this tightness in my chest like I couldn’t breathe. I had this need to breathe in more air, this need to escape. I just ran out.”

“Shit!” Melodie says.

“Shit,” I agree. “My doctor said later that this overwhelming sensation of terror is similar to the fight or flight response inherent in all animals, including humans. No one seems to know what causes panic attacks, but there are a lot of tell-tale signs that I had right from an early age. I always used to cling to my mother’s leg. I was afraid of Santa Claus.”

“Oh yeah,” Melodie says. “I always hated that old, fat, red, pervert too.”

“I suffered a lot of phobias back then,” I explain further. “I would become possessed by a desire to clean the bathroom. The bathroom and I would literally be covered in Comet cleanser. But then I stopped.”

“Why?” Melodie asks. “Did your cleaning phobia go away?”

“Not exactly. I ran out of Comet.”

Sunlight is pouring in through the diner’s windows and Justine keeps glancing anxiously out there to the street. Am I boring her, I wonder? Anything’s possible — she has heard this one before.

It’s only then that I suddenly notice the sunglasses she wears at a lopsided angle on her face hide a large bruise around her left eye. It’s a horrible purple thing that’s yellowing at the edges like rotten fruit.

“Oh there’s Addison,” she says suddenly. “I’d better go. I’d better not keep him waiting.”

Following her gaze, I see her boyfriend climb from his red Chrysler LeBaron convertible. Addison Healy has tanned skin and swept-back dark hair, and I’ve never liked him. He’s far too handsome — one of those people who’ve never known what it’s like to be alone — because there’s always someone new throwing themselves shamelessly at him. Someone who’s never had to appreciate the smallest signs of affection.

Justine scoops up her purse, quickly excuses herself, and rushes out to meet him. Leaving a three-quarter full Coke bottle sitting behind on the table, she’s gone almost before I can register it. She’s gone.

I watch them get into the car. She’s talking. Explaining herself. Addison seems agitated; gesturing wildly and I read his lips: “What fucking time do you call this? I told you to be home at three!”

Eventually he throws up his arms in frustration and drives away. I turn back to Melodie.

“Why does she stay with that asshole?” she asks after a long pause. “He hits her, don’t you know?”

“No?”

“How do you think she got that bruise on her face?”

“She said she fell against the... Fuck!” I hadn’t noticed...  well, come to think of it, I have seen signs, but I’ve never put two and two together. Sometimes I wonder if I am so wrapped up in my own problems that I fail to see the suffering of others around me?

“So what happened with you, Briar?” Melodie asks, toying playfully with the straw in her bottle.

“With me? Oh, after my first panic attack I returned to school and everyone laughed and talked about me, so I stopped going. Slowly I found it harder and harder to leave the house. After a while I gave up entirely.”

“When I did eventually emerge from my room, a week shy of my sixteenth birthday, it wasn’t like a beautiful butterfly emerging triumphantly from her chrysalis, but instead a tired gray moth treading cautiously into the light.”

“My doctor once speculated that my year’s hibernation was due to an irrational fear of growing up, but that’s not right! If I really didn’t want to grow up there are much more reliable methods: sleeping pills, guns, razorblades...”

“God, so how did you, like, get out of it?”

“My brother. My brother helped me. Helped me help myself, I guess.”

“Is this Jeff — twenty-seven and still living at home?”

“No, it’s Paul — twenty and away at college. You haven’t met... oh shit!”

And I suddenly remember: Paul’s arriving home today and I said I’d go with Mom to meet him at the airport. As the afternoon dissolved I’ve lost track of time.

“Is he cute?” Melodie asks as we slip from the diner out onto the pavement.

I can only nod yes.

“Can I come too?”

“No! I’ll see you later!” Melodie is super beautiful. When I first saw her, I wanted to see her again. I hardly ever see really beautiful females. I see pretty ones, hot ones, but hardly ever see a woman that just makes me turn my head and think ‘wow she is stunning.’ I think that people who are attractive just want the world to see something other than their looks. They want other aspects of their personality to shine through. I hate boring people. I hate boring guys. I feel like sometimes if I just be really quirky it will compensate for my lack of looks. Of course this never works.

***

About the Author:

Shane grew up in provincial New Zealand, a small place where options are small, were people wear PJs to the mall, a small place where dreams of being a writer or artist are not only actively discouraged, they are actively quashed. Nevertheless he fell in love with books, comics and writing at a young age and his early influences include Oscar Wilde, Alan Moore and Dr Seuss.

After many years of trying to get books, documentaries and films accepted in his own country, Shane gave up and settled for working in the fairly creative world of video-making and advertising.

A trip to Europe and the USA rekindled his love of writing, and he wrote the American-based novel ‘Exit,’ submitted it this time to American publishers and immediately, received several offers for the work. He chose one and ‘Exit’ will be released December 2nd 2013 in the USA as his first novel from Biblio Publishing.

It is the story of Briar Averill who spent a year trapped in her room, suffering from agophobia. Six years on, she’s free, yet ripples from the year's isolation still lap at the edges of her life, and that of her friends: Melodie, a pretty valley girl who she wishes she could be… Justine, her oldest friend, who has her own dark secret and Dermot who thinks he's the reincarnation of Robin Hood — stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Ripples echo down through the years, leading her to the answer to one very simple question: Is it what she always feared — is she losing her mind?

Shane has since had comic book scripts accepted in the UK by DC Thompson, publisher of the long-running ‘Commando’ comic, fulfilling yet another dream for his child-self.

He lives with a very old and very vocal Tonkinese cat, and they both dream of eloping together to the USA or Europe.

He likes oranges, orange juice, and orange furniture — in fact even the color orange. Why? Well, because it's the best color, of course. While he believes that being a grown up is not all it's cracked up to be, he still enjoys ruining his appetite before dinner, and staying up past his bed time.

www.shanefiler.com

www.facebook.com/shanecfiler

www.twitter.com/shane_filer

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7365723.Shane_Filer

Release Day Blitz & Giveaway: Snow White and the Vampire by Marina Myles

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Snow White and the Vampire
The Cursed Princes 
Book Two
Marina Myles
Genre: Historical/paranormal romance 
Fairy tales retold
Publisher: Kensington
Date of Publication: December 19, 2013 
Number of pages: 244
Amazon | BN | eKensington | iTunes | Blio


Book Description:

Fog and Fascination 

Alba Spencer thought her past in Romania and the dark magic that haunted it was behind her forever. She is one of the first female barristers now, safe in London. But London has its dark side, too. A man called the Ripper stalks the midnight streets. There are rumors that her hated stepmother has found her again, suggestions that the nightmares of her childhood are returning. And with them appears the cursed Gypsy boy she once loved, grown into a man more seductive and more terrifying than she ever could have dreamed…

Dimitri Grigorescu has become a surgeon, a gentleman—and a vampire. The lusts that drive his body are scarcely under control, and even he does not truly know what he is capable of. To fight evil and confusion, Alba must rely only on her wits—and a desire that overwhelms her doubts…

***

Excerpt:

“I’m very grateful for Teddy’s friendship—and for the opportunity to be introduced to the people he’s acquainted with.” The surgeon lowered his tone. “People like you, Miss Spencer.”

His words encouraged the spattering of nervous blotches across Alba’s chest. “You’re too kind,” she murmured. “So you find this city a pleasant enough place to live?”

“Pleasant but for the brutal murderer who lurks in the Whitechapel District.”

“Are you referring to the killer the newspapers are calling ‘Leather Apron’?” she asked.

He evaluated her with interest yet said nothing.

“I understand this monster killed two unfortunates by ripping their abdomens wide open,” she went on, making no attempt to sugarcoat her words since she was speaking with a surgeon.

“Where did you hear that, Miss Spencer?”

“It said so in the penny dreadfuls. Oh, not that I read them frequently…”

Drake raised an eyebrow.

What am I saying? She didn’t normally babble on so, but this man had lit a fire beneath her, though she couldn’t say why.

To her great relief, the doctor didn’t seem to notice her jittering nerves. “Nasty business, preying on those unknowing women,” said. “I can’t imagine a man treating any female that way. After all, women are beautiful creatures to be coddled. Admired. Cherished.”

“That’s a lovely thought.” Alba repressed a girlish sigh. “It’s a shame the killer does not share your school of thought.”

Drake wrapped his hands around his back. “I daresay the police believe this murderer will strike again.”

“I fear that is why fewer people came to your party this evening than Teddy anticipated. The city is gripped with fear.” She paused to take a sip of champagne. “Perhaps we should talk about something more uplifting than murder.”

“Yes.” The surgeon took her glass and deposited it on a servant’s tray. With his hand pressed to the small of her back, he guided her to a quiet corner of the drawing room. As she turned to face him, she could smell hot liquor fumes and the scent of expensive aftershave. Surprisingly, she found that she liked the mixture of aromas.

“Teddy tells me you hail from Romania as well, Miss Spencer. What are the chances of that?”

“Slim, I daresay.”

“You’ve lost a great deal of your accent, but if I had to guess, you are from Bucharest.”

“I am.” How did he know?

His features darkened. “It appears we were destined to meet. And since we have, I’d be fascinated to know more about you.”

Although Alba was taken aback by his boldness, nerves propelled her to continue their conversation in a blabbering rush. “I came to London when I was fourteen—to live with a family friend who runs the dormitory apartments of the Royal Opera’s corps de ballet. Just this year, I graduated from law school. That’s where Teddy and I met—at King’s College. Recently, I’ve been assisting Teddy’s father, Harold Rollingsworth, in the hopes that—”

“—you will become London’s first female barrister.” Drake completed her thought. Tilting his head to the side, he gazed at her with admiration. “Lovely, intelligent, and a pioneer. You are a rare gem, Miss Spencer.”

The Romanian’s hungry stare closed the small distance between them. Alba’s cheeks burned. We hardly know one another!

Desperate to steer the conversation away from herself, she cleared her throat. “I have yet to wish you a happy birthday, Dr. Griffin.”

“Thank you.” The guest of honor did a cordial bow. “But ‘Griffin’ is merely my professional name.”

Alba frowned. “What is your real name?”

“Dimitri Grigorescu.”

Alba’s limbs froze and the room started to take on a slow whirl. “That’s curious,” she murmured. “I knew someone by that name in Romania.”

“And I once knew a girl named Alba Zǎpǎda,” Dimitri said as a curtain of desire passed over his face. “You.”

His lips thinned into a familiar smile and Alba’s hand flew to her gaping mouth. Curse my poor eyesight! Now that she was this close to him she knew precisely who he was: Dimitri, the handsome Gypsy boy she’d fallen in love with at the tender age of fourteen.

Words escaped her while she gasped for air.

“Life is too short to be without the ones you love,” Dimitri purred. “Don’t you think?”

All at once, memories of the summer Alba spent in the Balkan countryside flashed through her mind:

The first kiss she and Dimitri shared amid a field of white poppies.

Simona, Dimitri’s raven-haired friend.

And the terrifying night the three of them spent in a haunted graveyard.

Her blood raced and the room spun in faster circles.

“I’ve been waiting an eternity to return this to you,” Dimiti whispered as he slipped a dried white poppy into her hand.

“But I thought you were dead,” she said before everything went black.

***

About the Author:

Although Marina Myles lives under the sunny skies of Arizona, she would reside in a historic manor house in foggy England if she had her way. Her love of books began as soon as she read her first fairy tale and eventually led to degrees in English Literature and Communications. Now, with her loyal Maltese close by, she relishes the hours she gets to escape into worlds filled with fiery—but not easily attained—love affairs.

She’s busy being a wife and a mother, but she is never too busy to hear from her amazing readers. 

Visit her at www.marinamyles.com 

http://www.marinamyles.blogspot.com/

www.facebook.com/marinamylesauthor

www.twitter.com/#!/marinaauthor

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7104310.Marina_Myles

***

Giveaway:

20 ebooks of Snow White and the Vampire

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Book Review: Entry Island by Peter May

Entry Island
Peter May
Quercus Books
Mystery/Crime
5 Stars

Blurb:

When Detective Sime Mackenzie boards a light aircraft at Montreal's St. Hubert airfield, he does so without looking back. For Sime, the 850-mile journey ahead represents an opportunity to escape the bitter blend of loneliness and regret that has come to characterise his life in the city.

Travelling as part of an eight-officer investigation team, Sime's destination lies in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Only two kilometres wide and three long, Entry Island is home to a population of around 130 inhabitants - the wealthiest of which has just been discovered murdered in his home.

The investigation itself appears little more than a formality. The evidence points to a crime of passion: the victim's wife the vengeful culprit. But for Sime the investigation is turned on its head when he comes face to face with the prime suspect, and is convinced that he knows her - even though they have never met.

Haunted by this certainty his insomnia becomes punctuated by dreams of a distant past on a Scottish island 3,000 miles away. Dreams in which the widow plays a leading role. Sime's conviction becomes an obsession. And in spite of mounting evidence of her guilt he finds himself convinced of her innocence, leading to a conflict between the professional duty he must fulfil, and the personal destiny that awaits him.

Review:

Sime MacKenzie (pronounced Sheem as the book helpfully says) is a detective sent to Entry Island
along with other officers, including his ex-wife Marie-Ange, to investigate the death of the wealthiest islander, Cowell. It seems an open and shut case, Cowell was having an affair with the wife of the mayor of another island. Kirsty Cowell, the widow, is the main suspect.

It's only once they are on the island that Sime thinks he knows her, although the two of them
have never met.

I first discovered Peter May quite recently with his Lewis trilogy. I'd avidly read the first two books and was in the bookhsop every week to see if the third had arrived. So when I got the chance to review this new book of his, I was very pleased.

I wasn't disappointed. Although set on a Canadian island rather than a Scottish one, May still has encapsulated what it is like to live somewhere so cut-off and so remote. A place where you know all your neighbours and everyone knows your business.

Like the Lewis trilogy, we have a present day story interspersed with a historical one, in this book the historical sections are about Sime's ancestor, also called Sime and his hard life on Lewis and then the forced emigration to Canada, like a lot of his countrymen.

Now, one thing I didn't know, was that the potato famine hadn't just affected Ireland, it affected parts of Scotland too. Thinking about the potato blight, that does seem to make sense, as the climate of Ireland and western Scotland and the Isles would be quite similar.

It's the characters who make this story, the murder mystery plot almost seems incidental. If there
is such a thing as a literary crime novel, I think this might be it. May has a good eye for description and everything is very evocative. My favourite parts were the historical ones but I didn't dislike the modern parts, they were both very well done.

Both Simes are such sympathetic characters and you really feel for what they went through. At times it is a tough read because of some of the subject matter, such as the violence inflicted on the crofters by the landlords and agents who wanted them off their lands. Some of the rich English had bought the islands, and in effect owned all the people on it.

Like the Lewis books, the island itself almost becomes a character. Although I have never been either to Lewis or Entry Island, from the books' description, if I ever did get there, I'd feel they were already familiar.

It was a wonderful read and kept my attention all the way through. I'll be looking out for Mr. May's next book too, I suspect.