My Top Books of 2018

Hi everyone!

Happy New Year’s Eve! I’ve been taking sometime to myself the last few days, and that’s why I’ve been a little absent. I’m looking forward to the new year though! I have signed up for lots of blog tours AND I plan to finish and publish my debut novel, Alter Reach. You’ll all be kept up to date on that of course. 😄

Today, I wanted to go over my top 20 books read this year. After I share my top 20, I’ll break it down even further to my top 5. Finally, I will reveal my number one book read this year! I’ve read a lot of great ones, so this was a little difficult to compile. These are in no particular order. I’m cheating, and counting all books in a series as one. 😊

My Goodreads challenge started as 100 books, but I upped it to 120. I’m ending the year at 135.


💙Top 20 Books Read in 2018💙

The Kooky Kids’ Club – Robbie Yates

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Rothana & Halayda – Sarah Delana White

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Outliers, Uprising, & Retribution – Kate L. Mary

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Hit Back – P.S. Bridge

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In Servitude – Heleen Kist

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Go Home, Afton, See You Soon, Afton, Nice Try, Afton & Time’s Up, Afton – Brent Jones

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Invoking Nonna – Sage Adderley-Knox

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The Last Valkyrie – Karina Espinosa

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Duck Egg Blues – Martin Ungless

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The Gemini Connection – Teri Polen

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The Things We Learn When We’re Dead – Charlie Laidlaw

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In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree – Michael McLellan

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As Good As Gold – Patricia Furstenberg

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Screams You Hear – James Morris

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Within the Walls – Dre Keaton

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Misteria – Cameo Renae

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The Flame of Battle – Pauline Creeden & Melinda R. Cordell

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The House – Jo Michaels

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Father FigureJames J. Cudney

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The Savior’s Champion – Jenna Moreci



💚Top 5 Books Read in 2018💚

The Things We Learn When We’re Dead – Charlie Laidlaw

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In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree – Michael McLellan

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Father FigureJames J. Cudney

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The Savior’s Champion – Jenna Moreci

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Duck Egg Blues – Martin Ungless



🧡Favorite Book of the Year!🧡

In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree – Michael McLellan

Let me know what your favorite book read this year is!

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SPOTLIGHT | Robert Mening

Hi everyone!

Today Robert Mening has agreed to come onto my blog and tell us about his awesome resources for authors! Check it out.


My name is Robert Mening and I was born in Sweden, Malmö 27 years ago. All my life I’ve been interested in computers, technology and the web. I built my first website in 2004 and ever since then I’ve been a full-time web designer and web developer.

Some not so interesting facts about me:

  • I have two brothers and one sister.
  • I studied media and marketing at Malmö University.
  • My hobbies are skiing and fishing.
  • I’m a coffee addict.

If you’d like to start a blog but have no clue where to start then check out my guide here where I literally hold you by the hand and take you step by step from having no blog to getting a beautiful one up and running within 20 minutes.

On the other hand if you don’t want a blog where you post regularly but just a simple (but gorgeous) website where you can showcase all your best work as an author then check out my post on website builders here where you can literally use my recommendations to build a great website in no time at all (bonus is that you don’t need to have any technical skills at all!)

I know most authors aren’t technical wizzes when it comes to websites etc so I’m more than happy to help and answer any questions that you might have…. just use my contact form and I’ll get back to you ASAP 🙂

Here’s my Twitter account and here’s my Facebook page.


Thanks to Robert for sharing his resources with us. I hope you’ll take a look if you think he could help you out.

Merry Christmas!

Hi everyone!

I just wanted to quickly post and wish you all a very Merry Christmas! I’ll see you all on the 26th. Have a safe and wonderful day with your family. ❤

Luke 2:14

14 “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.

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BLOG TOUR | Dragons of Destiny – C.R. Robertson

Hi everyone!

Today is my stop on the blog tour for Dragons of Destiny.


Title: Dragons of Destiny
Author: C.R. Robertson
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Editor: Ranting Raven
Cover Designer: BRoseDesignz
Blurb:
DRAGONS OF DESTINY
Magic is real and lives among us.
Several billion years ago the goddess Gaia created the earth, bequeathing her greatest gift – magical beings that formed the Seelie and the Unseelie fae courts.
Relationships are prohibited between the fae clans – but then the forbidden fruit is always the sweetest and hardest to obtain.
Ruben is a high-level mage of the dark fae, Allura belongs to the light fae. From the moment Ruben first set eyes on Allura she captivates him until he is willing to risk everything to possess her.
Her touch inflames him, releasing more than just white-hot passion when his hidden dragon emerges to claim his fated mate. All rules are burnt to ash when the dragons emerge to protect the earth from the greatest threat in over a thousand years.
Take a heart-stopping plunge into a hidden magical kingdom.
***WARNING*** Includes a kick-ass, sarcastic, deadly hero who is determined to claim his fated mate no matter who he has to smite along the way.
Dragons of Destiny is the first in The Gaian Otherworld and although the foundation of the series, it can be read as a stand-alone paranormal romance.
Buy Links:

Review:

If you’ve read my reviews before you know I had to pick this book up because I love dragons. I don’t always talk about the cover in my reviews but I love this one.

Dragons of Destiny is jam packed with mythology, which I always find fun if done well, and this is done very well. It was very well written, with some incredible world building that just had me lost in the world. The plot is fast paced and the action and adventure keeps you glued to the pages.

Ruben and Allura are intriguing characters with an interesting and rocky relationship that helps drive the plot forward.

I enjoyed everything about this book. It’s a paranormal romance with lots of mythology and cool world building. I suggest checking this one out.

Rating:

4/5☆


From an early age I have loved faery tales and mythological stories – they welcomed me into their pages while I went on the adventure with the characters, mourning their loss when the book ended and they left my life.
As an author, my characters walk into my life and take over my home until the book is over. They visit often to share more stories that need told, and it is my pleasure to share them. I hope you love my characters as much as I do, they have lived with me for a long time, and I am merely telling their stories about their time in the Otherworld.
I live in a cottage near the sea. I love to write in my beloved faery garden filled with flowers, trees, birds, butterflies, and my favourite bumble bees. The cottage is in a sleepy seaside town where I enjoy walks in the sand with my beloved dog that goes with me everywhere.
Author Links:
My Otherworld fb group for freebies and teasers: https://www.facebook.com/groups/313624995775336/
Instagram: @crrobertsonauthor
Buy Links:
Every nerve in my body became paralysed as my eyes made the steep climb to the balcony. My feet stuck to the floor, and a lump in my throat threatened to choke me. The music faded away to a background hum, and every person in this crowded room disappeared until there was only one left.
Dressed in an elaborate tight black and gold corset with a flared skirt, she radiated beauty in waves. A mass of golden blonde curls cascaded from a crown on top of her head around her shoulders. The ornate black mask hid her face but not her identity. Nothing ever would.
My feet moved of their own volition, walking towards her in a trance.
She was a phantom sent to torment my soul, a figment of my depraved imagination, a mirage. Whatever the vision in front of me was, my heart felt warmth for the first time in days. My dragon sniffed the air in appreciation, my nostrils flaring at the familiar scent.
Step by step she descended the staircase, her long elegant leg tempting through the slit of her dress, displaying golden stilettos. Every inch of her screamed seduction, and I was a slave for her to command. I knew my heart would be shredded tomorrow, but I couldn’t resist the pull of the magnetic force drawing me ever closer to her.

BOOK BLITZ | In Servitude – Heleen Kist

Inservitude

I’m thrilled to share this gorgeous book today! In Servitude by Heleen Kist, has been blowing readers away in Europe since it’s release and now is taking North America by storm!

Today I will be sharing an exclusive excerpt, and inviting you to enter an international giveaway for a chance to win a paperback copy of this exciting thriller!
In Servitude is also available for review through R&R Book Tours. Find out how you can get a copy below!

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In Servitude

Recently voted Top 50 Best Indie of 2018 on Read Free.ly

Publication Date: August 23, 2018

Genre: Thriller/ Suspense/ Mystery

Do you owe your family your life?

Grace thought her sister led a charmed existence.

She was wrong.

Now she has to pay the price.

When Grace’s beloved sister Glory dies in a car crash, her carefully planned life spirals out of control. She discovers Glory had been manipulated into illegal activities at her trendy vegan café. What’s worse, Grace finds herself an unwitting accomplice now forced to take over her sister’s shady dealings.

Determined to keep her fingers clean and protect those Glory left behind, Grace plots to escape the clutches of Glasgow’s criminal underworld. But her moral certainty is challenged when more family secrets emerge and her sister’s past intentions remain unclear.

Grace grows convinced Glory was murdered. Why won’t anyone listen?

Seeking justice, she finds betrayal…

Add to Goodreads

Excerpt

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Blue pulled at the lead. I let him off once I’d scanned the area and noted no loose dogs. Only a lone figure loitering. His eye line crossed mine as he also examined the park, and paused on me long enough to raise a creepy sensation.

I moved to a bench by the play park and pretended to tie my laces. When I straightened up, the man was striding straight towards me. I searched for Blue, hoping for a semblance of protection, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anyone else.

Before I could stop him, the man sat down next to me. He whistled and shouted, ‘Here boy!’ then faced me with a disturbing grin. As if he knew the dog wouldn’t come. I jumped to my feet and looked around. What had he done?

On the second blow of silent air through my dry mouth, Blue appeared from behind a tree thirty yard away. Safe. He showed no interest in me or the man, instead sniffing out the ground’s many treasures.

I turned back to the intruder. Standing over him gave me an edge—at least I thought it did—and I raised my chin and my voice when I asked, ‘Do I know you?’

He chuckled. ‘Nah, hen. I’m only the messenger.’

‘What?’

His smile faded. ‘We’re not very happy about you closing the café for so long. You need to open up again. There’s a delivery coming on Thursday.’

‘What do you mean? How do you—’

His eyes turned to ice as he grabbed my wrist in a flash. ‘We’ll be very disappointed if you’re not there to receive the goods. Ken what I’m saying?’

He rushed off, his dark coat billowing behind him like a cape, almost engulfing Blue who circled his legs, tail wagging, until he turned towards the road.

For a limited time, In Servitude will be on sale, so be sure to download your copy today!

Amazon US only 2.99

Amazon CA only 3.99

Amazon UK only 1.99
Europe only 2.99

Paperback also available Barnes & Noble & other outlets!

About the Author

InServitude_HeleenKist_Author

Heleen Kist is a Dutch businesswoman who lived all over the world while growing up and for her career. Then she fell in love with a Scotsman and his country, and now writes about its (sometimes scary) people from her garden office in Glasgow.

She was selected as an ‘up and coming new writer’ and awarded a Spotlight at Bloody Scotland 2018, the International crime writing festival.

Her debut psychological suspense novel ‘In Servitude’ was inspired by Heleen’s expertise in small business finance mixed with her friend’s courageous idea to open a vegan cafe in a city renowned for its dubious diet. She is currently working on her next book, which will be dark women’s fiction.

Heleen Kist | Amazon | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

2 paperback copies of In Servitude by Heleen Kist are up for grabs!!!

*International Giveaway

Winners will be selected at random on 23 December and notified personally, only your initials will be used in the winner’s announcement.

Enter Here!


Hosted by:

R & R Book Tours


Let me know what you think!

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BLOG TOUR | Death in Vermilion – Barbara Elle

Hi everyone!

To get ready for the 2019 release of book 2 in The Cape Mysteries, I’m sharing Death in Vermilion today, the book that started it all! I dare you to read the first chapter and not download a copy today!

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Death in Vermilion

Publication Date: April 16th, 2018

Genre: Mystery/ Thriller/ Suspense

KWL Cover Contest of 2018, Mystery Category Nominee!

A psychological thriller about murder among friends … and enemies.

Who do you trust?

Leila Goodfriend is laying down the bones of a painting. Interrupted by Iris, the noisy, unlikeable artist in the studio upstairs, Leila becomes distracted and annoyed.

When she discovers the racket was actually Iris’ dead body hitting the floor, Leila becomes obsessed: Who murdered Iris?

The other Red Barn Cooperative artists—competitive, jealous and hypocritical—are prime suspects. They all hated Iris. “An artist owes his life to his art,” Iris said.

Iris was good for a laugh. But no one is laughing now.

In this gripping mystery, new author Barbara Elle paints a clever and twisted picture of women and sisters, whose lives are entwined by a brutal murder in a charming Cape Cod town.

Alibis fall apart. Plot twists multiply. And Leila comes to a dangerous conclusion.

Add to Goodreads


Review:

I absolutely loved Death in Vermilion. Barbara Elle’s ability to paint vivid pictures with her words. Her attention to detail with an art perspective was something to really admire.

I loved the characters, each with their own distinct personality and charm. The dialogue always moving the plot forward. There was some humor mixed in, which I always appreciate. While this story was a murder mystery, I think much of it was about character relationships. It was very character driven, and I love novels like that.

I loved the twists and turns, the characters…everything. I highly recommend checking this out!

Rating:

5/5☆


Excerpt

red-paint-splatter-e1530293377416

Chapter 1

Bellies and Strips

There was no glance more cutting or cruel. The narrowing of unsympathetic eyes a shade of cool, blue slate, like Dylan’s on the cover of Highway 61 Revisited. The imperceptible flare of nostrils, followed by a slow yoga exhalation in Savasana, the corpse. It wasn’t going well.

Leila Goodfriend was laying down the bones of a painting. She took a step back from her easel. A no-name clam shack clung fearlessly as a barnacle to the edge of the old East End pier. A forlorn wooden structure, barely bigger than a Punch & Judy puppet stage, had withstood the fierce winds whipping off the water in the dead of winter. The pier was deserted. Anyone could paint a sunny day.

After outlining the shack in ghostly charcoal strokes, she stood, hand on hip, poised with a palette loaded with ultramarine and cobalt blues for the sky, sap green for foliage, a transparent manganese blue hue for waves in the water, Van Dyck brown for the pier’s planks and Naples Yellow Hue for sunlight. Flake white blobs dabbed in the foreground could be gulls, or children, or discarded clam containers. She hadn’t decided which. Leila loved that shack, the rough pier, and the view of dotted Race Point Lighthouse off the distance. Painting was all about execution, feeling a connection to the subject, the composition, the angles of light. Though local artists mostly painted popular summer scenes of boats and beaches.

That’s what the summer birds, vacationers who nested in the Cape Cod dunes from June until the end of August, bought. Her husband Joe dubbed them the dorks of summer. Leila didn’t care what unflattering name Joe had for them, or whether the summer birds cared as much about this place she called home as she did. She wanted to sell them a painting capturing what she loved about this place.

If she was lucky, and painting was largely a matter of luck, random strokes on the canvas would become a painting, At the Clam Bar: Succulent Bellies and Strips. If one of the summer birds bought her painting, she’d be happy. Even the most dedicated of artists needs affirmation sometimes.

A loud whacking thump overhead jarred Leila rudely from her thoughts; the thud traveled like a jolt of electricity down her spine Immediately, Leila knew the disturbance, of course, was Iris. Iris again. Always Iris. Of the six other artists who called the Red Barn home, her studio had to be, unfortunately, overhead.

And inevitably, as Iris worked, the creaking old floorboards quaked under her relentless assault with her flapping Birkenstock sandals.

Leila complained about Iris to Joe more than once, actually almost every day. It was impossible for someone who barely grazed five feet could make so much noise. Iris could be quiet if she tried, she’d say. She was inconsiderate. She was pompous. “Art,” Iris would say, “has a life of its own and an artist owes his life to his art.” Quoting Iris was good for a laugh.

If Iris bothered her so much, Joe would say, why keep talking about it? Why not rent a different studio? That would make sense, except Leila loved her space, had been there for nearly five years, and was lucky to have found it in this touristy town. Besides, she hated giving in to her own annoyance; she’d learn to ignore Iris if it killed her. Maybe, someday, Iris would just float away like a child’s birthday balloon. No such luck; gravity worked overtime with every tread Iris inflicted in her flapping Birkenstock sandals. Leila fought her first instinct, which was to grab the long, telescoping pole by the casement window, stand on a stool and bang her weapon of choice sharply on the lofty ceiling, twice. It wouldn’t work. It never did. Iris would ignore her.

Instead, Leila turned up NPR on the radio. She could drown out Iris with the sound of undemanding human voices on the radio. NPR was excellent company and, when necessary, excellent white noise. The hourly news, a lengthy interview, a personal piece affected in that breathless NPR accent was the perfect antidote for distraction. And the distraction was usually Iris.

Iris McNeil Thornton was a fellow member of the Red Barn Art Cooperative at Castle Road, which was housed in the happily dilapidated Red Barn Studio. It was high on a hill, overlooking Pamet Marsh, close enough to spy the flights of blue herons and egrets wheeling through the Aliziran Crimson sky, the sun an orb of Cadmium Yellow falling into the salt marshes from her window.

Among the Red Barn’s many charms were the old building’s quirky twists and turns, the sizeable studio spaces with high ceilings from its former life as the Southwind Bros. Button and Snap factory. Leila loved the patina on the old, uneven oak floorboards, the room secreted under the stairwell, doors that jammed and staircases that creaked.

But it was the heady mix of gesso, turp, linseed, pigments, primer, developers and emulsions, the fat smell of oil layered with acrylic resin and a faint dash of watercolor, an acrid, chemical concoction heady in the nasal passages, smells as familiar as the scent of a baby, that made it home.

Not that the Red Barn was without its problems. The daily irritations of artistry and intimacy meant the Red Barn artists were often less than happy. And when the Red Barn artists were less than happy, which occurred as frequently as the tides, they would reach for anything on hand ⎯ brooms, clogs, slammed doors, sighs in the hallways, post-it notes on the bulletin board, giggles behind a back, and any combination thereof ⎯ to convey their displeasure. Under other circumstances such communications might be considered rude, but the Red Barn operated by its own set of rules.

It wasn’t that the Red Barn, a collective space of otherwise solitary individuals, didn’t have its share of fellowship and communal spirit. Sometimes it was nice to see a friendly face.

But, recently, their friendships had been called into question by a series of items gone missing, small stuff, seemingly at random, from their studios, Daklon paintbrush, a can of gesso, and unused tube of paint and a half-used tube of paint. A box of plastic gloves was now empty; which Leila was sure had been half-full. No

one said theft, not at first. It was more like, did I leave this in your studio? did you find this in the bathroom? I must be a little crazy because I was sure I had it, but as the missing items mounted, minor though they were, so did whispering, suspicion, and an uneasy sense someone, maybe one of them, was a thief.

It made Leila uneasy; maybe someone was invading her studio, without her knowing. She debated whether, like Iris, she should lock her door at the end of the day. But she shook it off as unnecessary paranoia and decided to ignore it.

Leila took a deep breath, brushed back her unruly, graying curls, squinting at her canvas. When she painted, the circling steps of the heavy woman upstairs receded from consciousness, and time was suspended.

The wood planks of the pier were muddied. The perspective wasn’t quite right. The colors weren’t right. Leila waggled the end of her paintbrush like a cigar between her lips. It was a messy habit. She looked down at the black-and-white photo of the shack, not that she had any intention of painting the snapshot, any more than a musician only plays the notes.

Leila picked up her palette knife. Shaped like a small trowel for digging in the dirt, its usefulness came from its versatility in blending colors, creating textural effects, or scraping across the surface of a painting to obliterate an offense. Artists can be rough on their work; Leila was her own toughest critic.

The pier had to go. Leila wielded the knife, scraping hard until she hit the tooth of the canvas. She preferred working on a good, tightly woven cotton duck. It wasn’t an inert surface, so it recovered quickly after Leila’s brief attack. She dabbed a rag soaked in turpentine on the wound. The reconstruction of the pier could wait until tomorrow.

What time was it? Leila lost track of time as she worked. She never wore a watch in the studio.

But if she left too late, Joe would be annoyed his port wine reduction for the seared tuna had broken. It wasn’t the sauce—he could revive with a quick whisk of butter on a low heat—it was her spending more and more time at the studio and coming home later. The sky over Cape Cod Bay was a wistful grey heading into night.

Leila put down her palette knife, turned down her radio, and listened. There was quiet, finally quiet, blissful silence.

Now, at the end of the day, Leila had to steel herself for the most infuriating moment of the day: Iris leaving. The torrential thumps of Iris’ flapping Birkenstocks as she gathered up her belongings, slammed the window, searched for her purse, and slammed her door. The old oak boards were punished as as Iris clomped overhead.

The stomp was followed by the slam. Iris was incapable of doing anything quietly. There was some relief in the slam—it meant Iris was no longer overhead. The Red Barn artists never said good night, pretending not to notice each other’s comings and goings. So Leila didn’t expect Iris to poke her head in, or wave when she passed by. However, the daily drama of the swirling clamor that was Iris, like a performer doing a star turn on the stage, made it impossible not to notice her entrances and exits.

Leila walked to the window. The light of an Indian summer day was fading. Sailboats moored in the bay listed drunkenly. Had the final thump earlier signaled Iris’ departure? Leila walked back to her canvas. She recognized this as the same solitary circling as that of her neighbor overhead. It was ironic, but that didn’t stop Iris from being an annoyance.

She put her tools on her workbench. She should rinse them in turpentine and water in the bathroom at the end of the hall—the brushes would be tackier and difficult to clean after drying overnight. Oh well, she’d deal with that in the morning. Grabbing her backpack, she turned out the lights and closed her door. The hallway was silent. The other studio doors on her floor were closed. No Philomena, no Dové.

But something in the quality of the jarring loud noise earlier somehow made the quiet louder.

The stairs were poorly lit, even after Leila switched on the bare bulb dangling overhead. The whole damn place was a fire hazard. She climbed to the second floor. No Liz, no Gretchen. Later, she couldn’t quite explain why hadn’t she gone home.

The crap fixture in the upstairs hall, that never worked right, was out, as usual. The damn, dusty moose head Iris had mounted above her door stared down dolefully through its blind, button eyes. Its antlers wore a fine coat of dust.

Iris’ door was open a crack, which surprised Leila. Iris worked behind closed, locked doors, all day, every day. The other Red Barn artists left their doors open at least a smidgen, not exactly an invitation, but not a deliberately antisocial act. Iris had no such compunctions.

Leila knocked. Silence. She hesitated. Should she leave Iris alone? She took a few steps back toward the stairs, but turned around. What harm was it peeking inside? “Iris, its only me, Leila. ” No answer. “Iris, are you there?”

Leila stared through the crack in the door. At first, she thought the room was empty, but as her eyes adjusted, Leila made out a shape, or maybe a shadow, in the center of the studio.

The value of the only available light source, through the far window, made it difficult to see. Iris refused to use artificial light. She insisted on painting ‘as the Old Masters had’, that is, only by natural light. For a time, she had painted by candlelight, until the Red Barn got wind of it, banning burning candles before Iris burned the place down.

Leila stared at the shape. It didn’t move. Iris never left her door unlocked. Maybe she’d left something behind and would come back for it. Leila pushed the door open further, venturing into the silent studio, under the disapproving gaze of the mildewed moose, inching towards the shadow.

Iris, who incurred the Red Barn artists’ collective ire by deprecating the work of her fellow artists, neglecting to lock the front door, leaving puddles around communal hall sink, and far worse, as the prime suspect in the ongoing war of toilet squatting accusations, that same annoying Iris, was splayed on the floor, eyes wide open, inert as a tube of sepia.

It was a body. Iris’ body. Later, Leila recalled the body like a dead deer, abandoned on the side of the road after an accident. She remembered noting the color of Iris’ skin, like the underpainting of flesh in a neutral shade—what artists called grisaille, or dead coloring.

Ironically, under the circumstances, the scene is not unlike Iris’ own brooding assemblages: the carnage of death, overripe fruit in silver bowls, bird carcasses on platters, and game animals, fresh and bloodied, trophies of the hunt hung in the background, rendered in the style of the Old Masters.

And later, Leila was vaguely ashamed of her observations, her detachment. But, she thought defensively, isn’t observation was a habit developed over a lifetime?

Tentatively, Leila inched forward, reaching out her hand to touch the body. She yanked it back as if it was submerged in a shark tank. Iris was surprisingly warm, alive warm.

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, Leila saw Iris’ blood was a seeping stain from her flowing blue dress onto the floorboards. The red was the red every paint manufacturer had tried, but failed, to capture in a tube. Brilliant, blood red. But the eyes were dead, even if the heart was beating. Leila’s heart dropped a beat. Fear crept up her throat. Leila had to look away; she couldn’t look at those eyes. Should she call out? Is anyone here? But it was better she was alone, even if it was with a dead body. But, Iris wasn’t alone.

A small figure stood—as if on guard—over the body. Leila bent down to look at it: it was a wooden artist’s mannequin, no bigger than a child’s toy, standing guard over Iris. She recognized him immediately.

Jesus, it was Fred, fucking Fred— Leila, in a fanciful mood, had painted the figure to be anatomically correct, as well as well-endowed—who had gone missing from her studio months ago.

But poor Fred, as an eyewitness to a crime, could have nothing to say. There was no doubt he was Fred, and that he belonged to her. Bending down to pick up her missing mannequin, Leila gazed into his dead eyes. What to do?

In truth, she was both embarrassed by her handiwork, and concerned his presence could be construed as evidence at the scene of the crime; she pocketed Fred and in a sleight of hand he disappeared.

Leila didn’t need Fred to paint the picture. Iris prone. The blood. The burnished wood handle of a knife stuck in an ample left breast. Iris had been murdered. Leila didn’t scream. Leila wasn’t a screamer

Available on Amazon & Kobo

About the Author

barbaraelle

In her stunning debut thriller, author Barbara Elle paints a clever and twisted picture of women and sisters, whose lives are entwined by a brutal murder in a charming Cape Cod town. Death In Vermilion asks: Who can you trust?

After falling love with books and writing at a young age, she honed her writing chops as a copywriter at Macmillan, Doubleday Books and other publishers. She reported on local events, news and personalities working as a freelance journalist.

She grew up in Boston, but as an adult became a New Yorker. However, her writing draws on people and places she remembers, so Death In Vermilion is set on Cape Cod, a place of memories.

Barbara continues collecting characters and plots, often traveling the world with her touring musician husband, exploring Buddhist temples in Beijing, crypts in Vienna or Kabuki Theater in Tokyo. She always packs a notebook and a laptop.

She is currently working on the second book in The Cape Mysteries, Death in Smoke, due for publication in 2019.

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Death in Vermilion Mini Blog Tour Schedule

Dec. 17th
Reads & Reels (Kick-Off Post) http://www.readsandreels.com

I Smell Sheep (Excerpt) http://www.ismellsheep.com/

Irish Banshee Horror Blog (Excerpt) http://www.bansheeirishhorrorblog.com

Dec. 18th
Jessica Rachow (Review) https://jessicarachow.wordpress.com

Didi Oviatt (Excerpt) https://didioviatt.wordpress.com

Splashes into Books (Excerpt) http://splashesintobooks.wordpress.com

Gloria McNeely (Excerpt) https://gloriamcneelywriter.com/blog/

Dec. 19th
The Return Cart (Excerpt) http://thereturncart.com

The Bookworm Drinketh (Excerpt) http://thebookwormdrinketh.wordpress.com/

Audio Killed the Bookmark (Review) https://audiokilledthebookmark.com/

The Most Sublime (Excerpt) https://themostsublime.com

December 20th
A Boreol (Excerpt) https://www.aborroel.space/

Rockabilly Spoonie (Excerpt) https://lauramorningstar.com

Tsarina Press (Excerpt) https://www.tsarinapress.com

Dec. 21st
Go By the Book (Review) http://gobythebookblog.wordpress.com

Your Books, My Review (Review) https://yourbooksmyreview.wordpress.com


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RELEASE BLITZ | The Mystic – Jo Michaels

Title: The Mystic

Author: Jo Michaels

Genre: Urban Fiction/Apocalyptic Fiction

Editor: Tia Silverthorne Bach with INDIE Books Gone Wild

Publication Date: December 17th, 2018

Hosted by: Lady Amber’s PR

Blurb:

It’s one year until the apocalypse of 12.21.12 is supposed to take place.

Burning buildings, screaming babies, and death will surround us.

It will be the end of the world.

That can’t be allowed.

When six powerful women come together with one goal—to save humanity—they’ll get much more than they bargained for. They join forces and learn to use the gifts hidden within themselves to battle a monster feeding off something too many of us feel in our souls: Hate. But they must first learn how to forgive—themselves as well as others.

Hate is birthing a creature dwelling under Central Park in New York, and the fiend is eager to burst forth and sink his fangs into the Earth.

The Fury, The Visionary, The Beguiler, The Siren, The Prophet, and The Mystic are our last hope, and even they aren’t sure if they can win.

The end is coming, but with it, there may be a new beginning.

Buy Links:

The Visionary: https://amzn.to/2RXtH4W


Jo Michaels is…

Hi, I’m Jo. Let’s forget all the “Jo Michaels is blah, blah, blah” stuff and just go with it. I’m a voracious reader (often reading more than one book at a time), a writer, a book reviewer, a mom, a wife, and one of the EICs at INDIE Books Gone Wild. I have an almost photographic memory and tend to make people cringe at the number of details I can recall about them and/or their book(s). My imagination follows me around like a conjoined twin and causes me to space out pretty often or laugh out loud randomly in completely inappropriate situations.

I have a degree in graphic design, and my journey to the end was one few students who begin that program ever complete. However, this was one case where my memory and OCD tendencies helped me. Graduation was one of the most amazing days of my life. But, my most amazing day was when my now husband proposed. Every little girl dreams of being Cinderella someday, and he pulled off the proposal of fantasies.

At the risk of sounding cliché, I’m going to let it out there and say how much I absolutely adore the man I’m married to. Along with my children, he’s my whole world.

I’ve lived in Louisiana, Tennessee, and Georgia, but I’ve had my feet in almost every state. Traveling is something I adore, and have plans to someday see the Mongolia I’ve written about in Yassa.

One of my favorite things is hearing from fans! You can find me on social media most any day of the week. Connect! I’d love to hear from you.

Author Links:

Buy Links:

The Visionary: https://amzn.to/2RXtH4W

Chapter One ~ Being Psychic

Markaza sat at the table in The Clementine’s restaurant and chewed her food. Never in her life had she been so afraid of being alone. What if the monster’s description caused the other young ladies of Women Save the World to abandon her? There was no way she could fly solo. She’d die; they’d all die. Goosebumps lifted the hair on her arms, and she shivered.

They were bantering in their easy way, everyone seeming to feel deeply for the other after hearing their stories. Bronya being ostracized for being a lesbian, Lily and her self-image after the accident that left her scarred for life, and the other three, Shelia, Melody, and Coralie, all mangled or abused in some way.

Even though they were all damaged, each held a power that would determine the fate of the human race. Markaza hid her irritation over not being able to tell the ladies how to use their power, only help them discover it for themselves. She smiled as she watched Lily poke Bronya and point out the hottest woman in the room. Markaza’s ladies had a bond that would, hopefully, be difficult to break.

She was staring at her Reuben sandwich and pile of fries when the room went dark.

Blood.

There’s blood everywhere. It’s on the ground, her clothes, and her hands. Screams shatter the darkness.

A disembodied voice fills the air. “You’re next.”

She woke to someone shaking her. With her butt still in the chair, she blinked and looked around the table. “What happened?”

“Girl, you just fell into your plate. You scared the shit outta me!” Shelia was as white as a linen napkin.

“Oh, sorry.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I just need to eat. I think.”

Shelia lifted an eyebrow. “You should probably start with the fries stuck to your face. Seriously, you okay?”

Markaza nodded. “Happens all the time.”

“We know. But not usually in the middle of dinner.” Bronya added. “I was about to make a scene if you didn’t come back around.”

~~~~~

Nancy arrived and sat down on the floor. “What is it, child? What did you see this time?”

Markaza threw herself into the woman’s lap, wrapping both arms around her waist. “Oh my God, it was horrible! Nancy, we have to do something!”

Rocking the distraught child, Nancy used an even voice when she spoke. “Calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re hysterical.”

Markaza gulped for air, taking it in as if she was being suffocated. Her stomach settled as her hair was stroked. “Sunny died.”

“Baby, you’ve seen these kinds of things every year since you were just a little thing. What was different this time that’s got you so upset?”

“I was inside her head. I saw what she saw; felt what she felt. I died, too,” Markaza whispered. She pushed away and trembled again. It started deep in her belly and radiated out through her limbs, causing her words to come through chattering teeth. “She went skydiving and got severed from her partner when he pulled the chute open. We hit the ground… What do I do?”

“Oh my God.” Nancy’s eyes were wide and blank, her lips were pressed together, and her hand flitted up to touch her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine…”

“It was horrible.” Rapid breathing ensued, and Markaza could feel she was losing her grip again. “What do I do? If I call her, she’ll think I’m a freak! She’s the only friend I have.”


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BOOK BLITZ | Kingdom of Glass & Ashes – Multi Authors

Kingdom of Glass and Ashes: A Limited Edition Collection of Cinderella Retellings
Publication date: December 18th 2018
Genres: Adult, Fairy Tales, Fantasy

A classic fairy tale- but not how you remember it…

What if the stepmother wasn’t the only one who was wicked and Prince Charming wasn’t what he seemed? What if your favourite princess didn’t make it home by midnight?

Be transported to far away lands where fantasy and magic come together and pumpkins and princes are joined by shifters and stepsisters in this captivating collection of one of the greatest love stories ever told.

From the imagination of our authors, prepare to meet Cinderella as you’ve never read before. Kingdom of Glass and Ashes is a spellbinding collection of retellings, written by multiple USA Today and bestselling authors telling their own version of the beloved tale.

Get ready for romance, excitement, enchantment and more than just a glass slipper.

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SNEAK PEEKS:

Excerpt from Holly Hook:

I’m Ellia, Syndie’s ugly stepsister. Mother knows this, so she works Syndie to the bone, but this whole time, she’s been waiting. Planning. Syndie wants us on the streets, and despite my kindness, I’m no exception.

Following her to the Courts lands me in the hands of a handsome guard, Jasper. Literally. And he doesn’t seem to notice my corset or frizzy hair. Nervous and secretive, Jasper wants to stop cruel Prince Calvin from becoming King, which he’ll do when he chooses his wife at the royal ball. And now I’m key to a plan that can save my family and the entire Kingdom.

Our weapons? Two magical slippers. One gives false beauty–but only until midnight. Then the other shows the wearer’s true nature. If Prince Calvin even holds the hand of his chosen when the clock strikes twelve, the spell hits him, too. Everyone will see the truth and he’ll never become King.

He and Syndie deserve each other.

I must make her dreams come true. But Mother, my sister, and a kingdom of jealous girls will do anything to stop Syndie from snagging the Prince. But what terrifies me the most is that trapped slipper. I can’t let Jasper see how ugly I am, but if it all goes wrong, I’ll have to give myself to its magic.

The Kingdom must be saved at all costs, even if I must sacrifice my happily ever after.

Blurb from Emma Savant:

Hidden in the city of Portland, Oregon, is a shimmering world of magic—one faerie Olivia Feye doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot wand. She’d rather study biology, or garden, or floss her teeth, or do literally anything except pay attention to the Glimmering world and her internship at Portland’s premier faerie godparent agency.

But when her supervisor is hospitalized after a flying pumpkin carriage accident, Olivia is thrust into the middle of a case. And this one won’t be easy: Her client is Elle, a barista whose plans don’t include an enchanted prom or Prince Charming.

The reward for a happily-ever-after is enough gold pieces to get Olivia out of the Glimmering world forever. But as she comes face-to-face with the complexities of faerie godmothering, she’s forced to wonder: How much is she willing to sacrifice for her own happy ending?

Blurb from D.L Pitchford:

A modern day Cinderella with a twist…

High school seniors Noah Barton and Eden Prince have competed for top of their class since age seven. When their academic rivalry ruins a thermodynamics demo, their physics teacher decides to help them get along. By forcing them to be lab partners.

As graduation approaches, Noah and Eden are too busy figuring out college to deal with each other. Noah’s football-loving dad sabotages his chance to win a big scholarship. Eden’s traditional mother cares more about finding her a husband than encouraging her dreams.

Winning big at the regional science fair is their last hope.

Will Noah follow in his mother’s footsteps? Can Eden show her parents the environment is more important than a boyfriend? Will Noah and Eden finally learn to work together?

Follow Noah and Eden’s budding romance in this emotionally charged, gender-swapped retelling of Cinderella.

Blurb from Cate Dean:

Sometimes, you have to create your own happily ever after…

Elle Summers spends her days taking care of her stepmother and stepsisters, but she is secretly working on her escape. With the help of her best friend, she plans to act her way to freedom.

When she auditions for a local production, her life is turned upside down by entrepreneur and producer Henry Winters. He needs a new leading lady for his Broadway production, and he wants her. He sweeps her off her feet and to the Great White Way, where she finally has her chance to shine.

But in the whirlwind of her new life, she forgets one thing – her stepmother and stepsisters.

While she starts to live the life she’s always dreamed about, they are plotting a way to bring her home. And if their plan works, Elle will fail – in a way that not even a fairy godmother can fix.

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BOOK BLITZ | Once Upon the Longest Night – Multi Authors

Once Upon the Longest Night
Publication date: December 21st 2018
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance

The longest night. A vampire’s delight.

The winter solstice, a time of birth and rebirth, life and death, waning light and rising darkness. A time when those who flee the sun and crave the taste of blood find their greatest solace.

But one never knows what the longest night might hold.

Once Upon the Longest Night, a collection of adult paranormal romances, features eight novelettes of lovers and their battles against one of the greatest legends of our time: the vampire. A 15th-century seaman and the love of his life come face to face with a vengeful manjasang. In ancient Rome, a hunted priestess captured by a loyal centurion offers her aid to the enemy. With the help of a handsome Royal courier, a reluctant Romanian princess braves the curse flowing within her noble blood. Danger awaits when a vampire in the far reaches of North Dakota must endure the lethal cold to protect the woman she loves. And in a future New York, a broken general returns home for the Longest Night Ball where he meets a young male witch who might change his life forever.

This anthology combines vampire mythos and affairs of the heart with the sacred symbolism and magic of the winter season.

Sit back and let us tell you a tale. Welcome to the Longest Night.

Heat levels: Sweet to erotic.

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SNEAK PEEKS:

From His Last Battle by Sara Dobie Bauer:

Story Blurb:

Suffering from PTSD, vampire general Devlin Frost returns home from the war on Lycans and attends the historic Longest Night Ball. Here, royal witch Elijah Crow must choose three immortal suitors to compete for his love and power. When Devlin is shockingly chosen as one of the three, his immediate attraction to the young witch coaxes him into entering the fray, but this battle is for more than Elijah’s love. The broken general might also win back his ruined heart and bruised soul—if he survives the night.

Excerpt:

Everyone knew Westwyck Coven threw the best Longest Night Ball. Devlin had been there before, six years prior, before heading off on another successful tour to battle the Lycans in Africa. Ever since they’d butchered all the humans on that continent, the werewolves had been trying to invade upon the rest of the world.

He’d only been home for a matter of weeks and had yet to remember how to be normal, although “normal” was difficult to quantify within the bounds of fae high society. As a soldier, the aristocracy frustrated Devlin. He’d spent hundreds of years fighting bloody battles with wolves, yet it was the wealthy that scared him most—with their passive-aggressive posturing and sickly sweet smiles. At least werewolves came at him with teeth bared. Now that he was back in New York, it was impossible to know who wanted to be a friend and who wanted him dead.

And, there was the matter of the posadh.

Some royal witch had apparently just turned eighteen, and as per custom, she was forced to choose three possible vampire mates to compete over her for the duration of December twenty-first’s darkest hours. Deflowering a virgin witch gave vampires increased power—whether that be physical, influential, or financial. That power could last upward of one hundred years, so competition was famously fierce. At least one of the three “suitors” usually ended up dead. It was a disgusting business but part of fae high society. The union benefited vampires, but it also granted witches a vampire’s immortality, ensuring the secrets of magic lived on and on, all part of the treaty’s give and take. Devlin wanted nothing to do with it. Already, he missed the war.

To rectify his unease, he had wandered away from the grand ballroom an hour before. He now perused the quiet back hallways of Westwyck Estate, far from the sound of an impressive all-witch orchestra that played Christmas carols arranged as waltzes and tangos. He sipped a rich mixture of blood and sweet red wine from a crystal goblet as he strolled, taking in the mansion’s interior. In homage to ancient tradition, electric lights had been dimmed for the night, replaced by tall, gilded torches standing at intervals down the endless hall. Their dancing flames cast flickering shadows on the walls, creating what he assumed should be a sensual mood. Instead, he thought of battles long past, bloody fangs in firelight. As opposed to terror, the memory afforded perspective. He would much rather have been at a twilight fight than surrounded by the cultural complexities of a fancy ball.

On the walls, papered in forest green, hung massive portraits of Westwyck witches who’d come before—men and women who’d probably died long before the treaty. For all he knew, vampires had killed some of them. Magic and blood fae hadn’t always been buddy-buddy.

He was leaning forward, almost nose-to-nose with the painting of an ugly witch named Galahad, when a hidden door sprang open to his right. A blood-soaked Lycan lunged with jaws wide.

Devlin vaguely heard his wine glass shatter. He punched the monster once in its gaping jaw, twice beneath its hairy ribs, then unleashed his own fangs, prepared to tear the monster’s throat. But a bright green light flashed through the hall, momentarily blinding him. He didn’t notice the pain until his back slammed against a wall, and he melted to the floor.

He curled in on himself, moaning. He hadn’t been hit by a spell like that in… Never. He had never felt such power in his long, long life. He tried to stand, ready to fight more and more—fight forever if he had to—but a tall, dark shape pointed a glowing finger in his face.

Eyes unfocused, Devlin at first thought the tall creature looming above him a phantom until it said, “General Devlin?”

He blinked and tried to swallow around the lingering pain rising from his gut. He tasted blood, but at least pain allowed a little clarity.

Devlin sought his werewolf adversary but saw nothing more than a heavyset thug with a bloody nose, groaning on the floor ten feet away. And the phantom wasn’t a phantom at all but a man.

Though young, he held the bearing of someone who knew how to own a room. Despite being thin and in possession of such delicate features as to appear feminine, he held his shoulders up and back, his chin high—like a soldier bracing for battle. In an all-black suit, the witch was all the more ominous due to his glowing green pointer finger, still directed at Devlin’s nose.

“I’m sorry.” Devlin pressed the heel of his hand to his throbbing temple. “I thought…” The words solidified in his throat. War had followed him home.

After his last tour—when he’d started seeing imaginary enemies everywhere—he’d been forcibly sent home to New York. The doctors said the delusions would stop once away from combat. They said to give it time. Get married. Get settled. Find happiness. But what did doctors know about being a soldier?

The phantom lowered his glowing hand and spoke over his shoulder. “Jesus, stop moping, Lucius. Some bodyguard you are. Clean yourself up.”

The injured “bodyguard” swore and shoved to his feet before disappearing through the door hidden in the wall, leaving Devlin alone with the witch.

Devlin stood slowly—no sudden moves with this witch around—and eyed the man warily. “You don’t seem like you need a bodyguard.”

With a cocked brow, the witch shrugged a slender shoulder. “I don’t, but my mother insists.”

Hand no longer glowing, he reached up to touch the long scar on Devlin’s cheek.

Devlin caught his wrist and squeezed, feeling a powerful pulse radiating into his palm. It tempted him far more than it should have. “Don’t be rude,” he said.

The witch smiled, and Devlin instantly read the question glittering in his eyes: Or what?

Hand still in Devlin’s grip, the witch’s dark eyes drifted over him, taking in the navy blue uniform and cornucopia of medals over his heart. “The great general.” A hint of admiration warmed his voice. “My grandfather used to tell stories about you. But you’ve been gone.”

Devlin still held the witch’s hand. He couldn’t seem to let go—or, perhaps, he didn’t want to. He swallowed hard, realizing how long it had been since he’d stood close enough to smell desire in someone’s blood. He smelled it now. “Only six years,” he said.

“That’s a long time. To me.”

“It would be.”

Devlin couldn’t keep from studying the witch more closely. He had the tender skin of innocent youth, the unbridled passion of a boy on the cusp of manhood, and the eyes of a fearless soul. It was almost too much. Too tantalizing.

Finally, Devlin forced himself to let go. He busied his hands with straightening his suit. “Are you even legal?”

The witch touched his wrist where Devlin’s grip had been, as though he’d felt the heat between them, too. On an exhale, he pushed black curls behind his ear and stared at Devlin, who found such scrutiny unnerving. He would have sworn the witch saw straight to the depths of his dead, empty heart. Based on Devlin’s reputation, the witch should have been scared; instead, he tilted forward, closer. He was recklessly confident for a man his age. But more than that, this magic fae carried something akin to fire beneath his skin.

And Devlin wanted to be burned.

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BOOK BLITZ | Library Absolution – Jennifer Derrick

Library of Absolution
Jennifer Derrick
(Legacy of the Book Mesmer, #1)
Published by: Crimson Tree Publishing
Publication date: December 17th 2018
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Alarick Brandon is the powerful wizard who operates The Keep, a refuge for magical people fleeing the persecution of the Ministry. A bitter realist, Alarick knows it’s only a matter of time until the Ministry succeeds in eradicating magic from the world—and exterminating all magical beings—so he has been careful to avoid any personal involvement with the people who pass through his sanctuary.

But when Elissa Stone arrives at The Keep, her village a smoldering ruin, and only her magical talent and a forbidden library left to her name, Alarick’s ordered world descends into chaos. Elissa is a Book Mesmer, a magical talent long believed extinct. She can enchant books, making them indestructible, unreadable…even deadly to unauthorized readers. But while her magic can secure a legacy for future magical generations, it’s not a skill that’s good in a fight, and certainly not one that Alarick sees any real use for. But there’s something compelling about a woman who defies the Ministry’s edicts against female literacy, and she seems determined to prove that knowledge is a weapon in its own right…

The first installment in an enticing new fantasy series by author Jennifer Derrick, The Library of Absolution is a compelling story of perseverance and determination in the face of persecution, in a Dark Age where hope is lost—and knowledge is the only thing left to fight for.

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EXCERPT:

“You told me you left to look for books,” Alarick said.

“I did, in part. That wasn’t a total fabrication. I figured if I was leaving I might as well make the effort. If I was going to get killed by the Ministry, it should be in the service of something larger than myself. Fool that I was,” she whispered.

Alarick ignored the last part. She was only stating a fact. There was no need for him to comment further on her foolishness.

“But you had no intention of returning?” he asked. “Because of something you found in my library?”

The thought of her leaving with no intention to return gutted him. It was bad enough she’d wanted to leave at all; to put her safety at risk for the sake of some books. It was bad enough that he had failed to keep her safe; to understand what she meant to do until it was too late.

But even at the worst of it, he’d believed she intended to return to him. To the Keep. That was why he’d gone after her, because he believed she still wanted to be here. That she’d intended to run away forever was unthinkable. That he’d risked his life for someone who had run from him, who wanted nothing to do with him, was galling.

He choked back his rage and sorrow, replacing them with cool disdain.

“Well, then, are you going to tell me just what was so terrible that it would make you flee and never come back? I’m aware that nothing in that library paints me in a flattering light, but you already knew of my unpleasantness. Surely the disjointed ramblings of a young man could not be quite so damning,” Alarick said.

Of course, he knew the truth. There were some secrets in there so damning he could imagine exactly why she wanted to run from him. It was why he kept that room protected. Damn her for finding it. Damn her for finding him.

She turned her head away from him. Not that it mattered. She couldn’t see him. But he wasn’t going to let her damn his soul and cast him out of her life without at least facing him while she did it. He reached over and with gentle pressure turned her chin toward him.

“If you expect me to forgive you for your trespass, you will at least face me while you tell me exactly what sort of monster you believe me to be,” he said.

“I’d rather you tell me the story as the man you are now, not the boy who did the things I read. Tell me there’s a better ending to your story. Tell me that you are not the monster.”

He laughed at that.

“Would that I could,” he said. “But since you read my books, I’m certain you know there is no redemption for me. That is why you left, isn’t it?”

“No. I didn’t leave because I feared you to be irredeemable. My time with you has taught me that there is more to you than the boy in those books. I left because I feared there was no place for me in your story. And that I could not bear.”

He was about to say something, but suddenly he couldn’t remember what it was. What had she said? She hadn’t left because of his past deeds, but because she was afraid he had no place for her? Was that possibly right? He struggled to make sense of it in his brain. He’d expected condemnation, not… Was it disappointment he heard in her voice?

Before he could sort out a proper response, she said, “I’ve read your grimoire. It’s terrifying. Start with why you took such an interest in dark magic and go from there.”

Alarick said nothing at first. Why had he taken an interest in dark magic? The question was better phrased as, “Why not?” He looked at Elissa. She might not be able to see him, but she had an uncanny ability to focus on his face as though she could. And something in her eyes compelled him to tell the story that he’d never told anyone in its entirety.

Author Bio:

Jennifer is a freelance writer and novelist. As a freelancer, she writes everything from technical manuals to articles on personal finance and European-style board games. Her interest in storytelling began when she was six and her parents gave her a typewriter for Christmas and agreed to pay her $.01 per page for any stories she churned out. Such a loose payment system naturally led to a lot of story padding. Broken Fate, her first novel, earned her $2.80 from her parents.

Jennifer lives in North Carolina and, when not writing, can often be found reading, trawling the shelves at the library, playing board games, watching sports, camping, running marathons, and playing with her dog. You can visit her at her official website: JenniferDerrick.com.

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