About the Book:
Can Mauri save herself and Ghatotkacha before the consequences of her own actions can destroy both their worlds?
~ New Release ~
Mauri by Saiswaroopa Iyer
About the Book:
She wanted to kill the man who others called a God.
Love is but an obstacle in her path
Can Mauri save herself and Ghatotkacha before the consequences of her own actions can destroy both their worlds?
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âGood aim! But that sorry-looking insult to all weapons is not going to take you very far.â
Mauri jumped out of her skin. The man who had found her out was a complete stranger. A closer look at him told her he was a Rakshasa. Her first instinct was to make a run towards the exit. It would be only a matter of time before this Rakshasa would go and tell Ghatotkacha. Then it struck her that she had never seen this man in Ghatotkachaâs team! Who was he?
âYour secret is safe with me, little one!â He beamed. The broken canine on his upper jaw could not be missed. He took her arm but she shook him off. âAlright! Remember girl, I am your well-wisher.â
âI donât even know who you are!â Mauri backed away.
âSomeone who can protect you fromâ¦,â he smirked and pointed to the gap between the two ornate pillars close to where she was hiding, âthemâ
Mauri peered through the gap. She could count up to six guards furiously searching for the culprit who had dared strike Krishna Vaasudeva. The foolhardy nature of her attempt struck her now. How had she even dreamt of escaping the heavily guarded palace after doing what sheâd done?
âCome with me.â He held her arm. âIf you want to escape without being seen, that is.â His voice assumed a lower note. âAnd if you want to get another chance at your target.â
Unsure and still guided by her frustration, Mauri followed him towards a secluded section of the vast palace garden. When she left the place a good couple of hours later, her mind reeled at the task before her. It was too much, what the Rakshasa had asked of her. But she could not have afforded to be caught by the palace guards. Possibly she could have lied about her aim going wrong when she was trying to get some fruit. The news would still have travelled to Dhatri, though, and who knew how she would react? On the other hand, the prospects that this Rakshasa promised, though at great risk, seemed more welcome. Mauri continued to walk in a daze, aimless and unmindful of the maze of paths. A shrill cry calling out to her brought her back to this world.
âMauri! Where on earth did you disappear?!â Nandini ran up to her, and not very far behind was Dhatri!
For the first time, Mauri found herself tongue-tied, at a loss for explanations. âIâ¦I came with Ghatotkacha. I lost my way.â
âAny guard would have guided you out of this place.â Dhatriâs voice had traces of annoyance. âAnd why did you not even inform us before leaving?â She sighed as Mauri slipped back into silence again. âI found us a caravan headed eastward. Let us quickly take leave of our hosts and start this afternoon.â
Mauri followed her without a word. She needed to be in Dhatriâs good books. âMahadeviâ¦after going back to Kamarupa, can I live with you?â
She saw Dhatri halt in her steps and look visibly delighted. She heard Nandini squeal with joy. Neither had a clue of what was going on in her mind.
When they left Indraprastha later in the day, Mauri looked back at the glorious looking arch receding into the distance. She had not taken leave of Ghatotkacha. It would have been nice to see him just one more time!
About the Author:
Formerly an analyst with a Venture capital firm, Saiswaroopa currently writes Puranic fiction, with a focus on lesser known heroines of Ancient India. Mauri is her third work of fiction after Abhaya and Avishi. Her interests include Carnatic Music, Philosophy, History and Literature of India. She won a state level gold medal from TTD in rendering Annamacharya Kritis. She holds an MBA from Indian Institute of Technology Kharagpur.
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Thriller
Date Published: April 1 2018
A grieving father – known to the reader only as Teacher – takes on a new identity after the brutal murder of his teenaged son. Masquerading as a substitute teacher, he tracks down the killer – a high school senior – and methodically builds a web to entrap him. Teacher does not desire simple justice or death for the killer; he wants the killer to endure what his son endured. But Teacher’s plan takes a life-shattering turn when he must save his son’s former girlfriend from the clutches of the brutal MS-13 gang.
A taut, suspenseful thriller, Red Rider explores the depths of revenge and the strength of human bonds.
About the Author
Gerrit Steenhagen grew up in San Diego, California. He wrote, produced, and directed the indie drama If Tomorrow Comes. He currently resides in Los Angeles.
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Paranormal, Fantasy Romance
Date Published: June 15, 2018
Devlin Sinclair, the New England Dark Ones’ Hunter, is on a mission to track down the elusive and mysterious Medusa, perhaps the ultimate nemesis the Pure and Dark Ones have been battling in recent years.
But he can’t do it alone.
Grace Darling has isolated herself from the world since a very young age, after her parents’ death and because of her own social disability. Awkward and brilliant, a born sensualist, Grace agrees to a blind date that changes the course of Destiny.
She has the skills he needs.
Their chemistry is off the charts, but will she, can she give him the love he craves?
About the Author
Aja has been writing stories since the age of six, and novels since the age of thirteen. While she'd be the first to admit that those early efforts weren't particularly good, she sure loved putting them down on paper!
The best part of writing, according to Aja, is that it’s completely organic, the way the stories develop. When the inspiration hits, she writes just so she herself can learn where the characters are headed because oftentimes, they take her by surprise! It is her ultimate dream to share her stories with as many readers as she possibly can.
Her other loves include art, cooking, old movies (anything with Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Robert Redford, Vivien Leigh, Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman, Clark Gable, and all the song and dance numbers because she can’t watch them and not be happy!)
She adores taking long walks with her husband and running after her two rambunctious kids. She has traveled extensively (all seven continents except Antarctica) and has had a multi-cultural upbringing. She speaks two and a half languages and binge watch TV shows when the mood strikes.
Aja has a Bachelor’s of Arts in Comparative Literature and Economics and two Master’s degrees, one of which is in East Asian Studies.
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Contemporary Fiction
Date Published: April 2018
Publisher: Page Publishing
The Offspring is a gripping narrative filled with convoluted schemes and a secret that destroyed so many lives.
Terrifying family secrets have plagued Hughie Decker for as long as he can remember. Now, just as his life and career have finally begun to make strides, a seemingly innocent story from his hometown newspaper leaves Decker with no choice. He must return to his boyhood home to confront the horrid truth that destroyed so many lives.
Excerpt
Prologue
He could not bring himself to open the door. It felt much safer to remain inside, even though the air was oppressively warm and cloying. He glanced through the windshield to that spot, to where he knew he must go. He took a deep breath. Steeling his resolve, he opened the door and stepped down to the ground. He took another deep breath then forced himself to walk through the trees to near the water’s edge. He looked around. Considering the years that had passed since he last stood on this spot, some things obviously had changed, and yet there was an eerie sameness to the place. Despite the heat, a shiver ran up his spine. He did not belong here, but remain he must, even though he felt like an intruder. Sutter’s Pool looked the worse for wear. Some trees had toppled over and lay barren. Twists of bark peeled from the trunks and only desiccated brown leaves clung to splintered branches. He looked up at the one exception to the ravages of time and neglect, the one unfortunate constant: that magnificent giant elm, towering before him, more majestic than ever, and still rooted firmly to that spot in a contrasting effusion of glorious green splendor. High above, a burst of sunlight illuminated a short length of rope. It was secured to the limb by a large slipknot, its dangling end tattered and worn. As he stared at it, memories, or what he imagined to be memories (for he was not here when that most tragic of events happened) swirled in his head like a swarm of wasps bent on revenge. Slowly, as the wind picked up, the dangling rope flicked in lazy circles, gaining momentum in the frenzy of its own macabre dance.
The sky, only a moment before the essence of cerulean blue, clouded over, not in portentous gray but hazy-like, as if seen through the gauze of time. The breeze slowed, but its effect could still be heard through the gently rustling leaves of the elm. As the man lost him- self in the hypnotic swing of the threads of dangling rope, suddenly a voice rang out. No, two voices. Two male voices. Their laughter trilled through the afternoon air, joyous in abandon, epitomizing all that is carefree youth. The sounds swayed back and forth overhead, like that piece of rope, as if tethered to a giant pendulum. Suddenly there came a loud splash—kuh-thunk-kuh!—and the man turned toward the pond just as a boy’s torso broke the surface with a powerful thrust. How he managed to laugh without swallowing mouthfuls of water was a wonder. The boy swept the waves of hair from his eyes and pointed to his left. “I bet you can’t beat that somersault, little brother!” The man turned to see another boy, this one a few years younger than the valiant swimmer, standing near the water’s edge. The younger boy was trying in vain to grab hold of the swinging rope. The man looked up to see a rope swing knotted to that same limb high above where moments before had hung only a remnant. In a desperate attempt to catch the rope swing, the younger boy lunged too far and awkwardly cartwheeled into the pond. He clumsily pulled himself onto the bank, while the older brother effortlessly treaded water and was laughing hysterically. “Oh, yeah?” cried the younger boy, picking up a clod of dirt. “Incoming torpedo! Fire one!” he yelled, whipping it at the cackling swimmer. But the older one was too fast and jackknifed below as the dirt bomb splattered harmlessly on the surface. The boy picked up another clod and waited for his brother to come up for air. But he didn’t. The boy waited. The seconds ticked by. “Come on, Tommy, quit it. Here. I’m throwing the dirt bomb away.” And he did. “Game’s over, okay?” Still nothing. He knew his brother was a strong swimmer, but the boy grew worried. “Tommy!” Then, as if driven by a monstrous clap of thunder, the sky grew dark. Only there was no thunder, for it had become eerily quiet. The man called out to the young boy, who seemed not to hear. Suddenly, as if someone had opened a door to a wind tunnel, a mighty gust began to race around the perimeter of the pond. The man looked to the water’s surface, but still no sign of the swimmer. Fearing the worst, he called out again to the other boy. “Don’t worry, son, I’ll save your brother!” The man turned quickly toward the boy, but he had vanished. He was nowhere to be found. Just then, the water broke and the swimmer surfaced, desperately gasping for air. The man called to the swimmer, who, like his younger brother, seemed oblivious of the man. In a frightening instant, the entire pond began to churn, first swirling about in eddies then merging into a singular, violent whirlpool. The circle tightened around the struggling boy, closing ever so quickly in diameter as the rotation and froth gained momentum. It tightened further like the giant, unforgiving iris of a massive camera lens. The current escalated, engulfing the boy’s legs like so much quicksand, pulling him down, ever down. The man tried to run to the water’s edge to save the drowning boy, but he could not move. It was as if his feet were cemented into the soggy ground. He watched in sheer helplessness as the swimmer was sucked deep into the swirling abyss. The water closed over the brown curls of hair, swallowing its prey as the pond slowly returned to deceitful serenity. And then he saw them, right where the younger boy had stood begging for his brother to break to the surface. The man’s mouth went dry as if filled with sand, his escalating pulse threatening to burst his throbbing heart. He squinted through the gauze of light to see lying on the ground a lifeless body—no, a dead body. A young black man knelt over the prostrate form, his hand cradling a rock splotched with gray pulp and dripping with blood. Both figures were drenched as if they had been tossed overboard into a turbulent sea or perhaps the raging pond that had swallowed the swimmer. Droplets of blood and gore fell from the rock onto the corpse as blotches of red spread over its clothes in a nightmarish version of a Jackson Pollock canvas. The black man slowly turned his head toward the intruder, his eyes seeming to glow like the fires of hell; he stood, never taking his eyes away yet tightening his hold on the bloody rock, which now resembled an oversize sticky softball. Slowly the black man (on closer look, was he merely a teenager?) began his approach, feet pulling from the ground’s suction in steady cadence. Stumbling backward, the intruder raised his hands in defense and croaked, “No, oh god, no. I couldn’t save him. I tried, but I couldn’t!” The man tripped, falling onto his back. He shut his eyes in an effort to escape the terror before him. There he lay, waiting for the rock to split his skull open when . . . nothing. No sound of approaching feet, no thudding of his own heartbeat. Nothing. He froze, afraid to open his eyes lest he see a hovering figure, the rock mercilessly poised to come crashing down. The smell of grass was unexpectedly sweet, powerfully sweet in fact, and oddly comforting. He slid a hand across his wet brow, fearing the moisture was his own blood. Slowly he opened his eyes. No blood. Lifting onto his elbows, he looked around. The black man (boy?) was gone. The dead body was gone. In its place the grass was dry, sparse blades waving gently in a reluctant breeze. Looking upward, the sky appeared to have returned to normal. Then he saw the dangling piece of rope lit softly once again by dappled sunlight. The man staggered to his feet. “Well, there’s trouble,” he heard from behind. The startled man whirled to confront that voice from his past.
About the Author
While teaching in a university theatre department, Pinnell accumulated both local and national awards for teaching excellence. He was a theatre director, designer and scenic artist, and also authored three textbooks and two plays. THE OFFSPRING is his first novel.
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The Gathering
Are you a book blogger? -- EXCERPT: Jamie I saw Emperor – looking like a hot air balloon, sounding as ridiculous as ever – blathering on about his personal Reichstag fire, and laying the blame of the explosion squarely at the feet of myself and my brothers-in-arms. “…and it’s these traitors of the state – the threat to the security of my Empire of the United States of America – the defectors of the Cabal who go by Jamie Ryanand Basile Perrinault and, my greatest betrayal, Supreme Allied Commander Kanoa Shinomura…” he hollered into the microphone, which seemed to reverberate throughout the city. At the sound of Kanoa’s name, the Cabal members below the balcony slammed the butts of their guns on the floor in rhythm. I knew that rhythm all too well – it was meant to be a war cry for those of us in the rank-and-file of the Cabal – but, to the untrained ear, it sounded like a machine gun going off…which was exactly the point. But I couldn’t help but sneer at the accusation that the blast that nearly killed Evanora and Tommy was somehow our fault. He’d spent decades trying to catch us and failing miserably, yet in the same breath, believed we were inept enough to set off a blast that took no lives and could be cleaned up during a balmy New York evening. And he managed to sell this ridiculous belief to the crowd, no less. “Let’s make something clear, asshole,” I muttered, “if it had been me and the boys that lit your shit up, you wouldn’t be standing here today.” Despite the absurdity of the accusation – and despite the obvious absurdity of the accusation – the victims of psi just grunted along, agreeing with everything and anything that came out of Emperor’s mouth, in part because they didn’t know any better (they were psi victims, after all), and in part because any disagreement with what Emperor had to say was met with a fierce, painful punishment. “His Word, Before All and Above All,” I muttered. “With liberty and justice for no one, so kiss my peasant Old New York ass and take a breath mint afterward, unless you like that funky aftertaste…” My voice trailed off as my eyes focused on a strange woman on the balcony. At first, I couldn’t discern who she was – she looked like someone I’d seen before, yet someone I’d never seen before. Her hair was a garish white-blonde, stringy and lifeless, and pinned tightly behind her head with a set of black ceramic chopsticks. Her makeup was almost cartoonish – cat-like black eyeliner and matte black lipstick sat atop a ghostly white foundation. Even her outfit was a hideously hilarious cultural appropriation – a black silk kimono paired with a set of black stiletto heels. I’d seen Old New York 42nd Street prostitutes, with terrible heroin problems, sell the “Asian coquette” look better than what I’d seen before me now. “Who the actual…” I began, hesitantly, unable to process who I was seeing before me. And then it hit me, all at once, who she was. For the first time in a long time, I was literally speechless. When I could finally find my voice again, it barely came out in a whisper. “Rosie,” I squeaked. I walked into the Ludlow Street apartment I shared with Angelique and was instantly greeted with the smell of a meat dish that, I would later learn, was calledcarne asada. “Angelique!” I called out over the loud sizzling of steak as I kicked off my black Frye boots and set my matching acoustic guitar down. “Where are you, my love?” “In here!” she called, out of sight, from the kitchen, where more clanging and banging sounds echoed over her voice. I began walking through the apartment, shedding layers as I went along until I reached the kitchen wearing nothing but my black leather pants and a mischievous smile. I was hoping to have a little appetizer of crème d’Angelique before dinner, but when I reached the kitchen, I realized – much to my chagrin – that we weren’t alone. Angelique, her hair tied back into a messy ponytail, was wearing a tight, white, see-through shorts jumper and a matching white apron. She was standing next to an unfamiliar-looking woman with a matching messy ponytail, but whose thick chocolate brown hair stood in sharp contrast to Angelique’s thin flaxen locks. The rest of her, too, was in stark contrast to Angelique, but not in a bad way – she was olive-skinned, in contrast to Angelique’s pale white skin; she was curvy, in contrast to Angelique’s ectomorphic figure; she was fiery, in contrast to Angelique’s ethereal nature. They were standing side by side, working on something that smelled simply delicious. Angelique was mixing flour, sugar, and garlic powder, and her friend was adding melted butter and salted water to the resultant powder, then kneading it until it formed a dough. “Am I interrupting something?” I asked as I walked behind Angelique, wrapped my arms around her waist, and kissed her neck, breathing in her scent of lilacs as I did so. She smiled, then took her index finger and bopped the tip of my nose with the flour mixture. “Hey handsome,” she said, beatifically. “We’re making something special for you for dinner. We’ve got carne asada in the pan over there – we’ve got some arroz con gandules in the rice cooker – and we’re making…wait, girl, what’s this called?” “Arepas,” her friend said, smiling as she continued to knead the dough between her hands, her silver thumb ring glistening in the light of the dusk as she did so. “Right, arepas,” Angelique repeated. “Ramira here is teaching me all her magic ways – she says this is the exact dinner I need to make if I want my man to marry me.” She giggled, then elbowed Ramira, who giggled along with Angelique. I couldn’t help but giggle, as well, as I unentwined myself from Angelique and walked over to Ramira to properly introduce myself. “I’m going to be stuffed fordays with all this delicious food, so it’s only right that we become friends,” I began, extending my hand. “Hi there. I’m James Randall Ryan IV, I somehow lucked out enough to convince this lovely lady Angelique to be my girlfriend, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Jamie.” Ramira smiled, then shook my hand with two of her fingers, taking care not to smear the wet dough across my palm. “Well, my name is Ramira Diaz, Angelique is my best friend, and it’s a pleasure to meet you too. You can call me Rosie, though. Everyone else does.” I sat under a wilting star magnolia tree and stared, intently, through the open window of a room that had to be Rosie’s dressing room. She peeled her black silk kimono off and turned her back to the frameless window, exposing her prominent ribs and shoulder blades as she did so. The sight of her suddenly-bare, emaciated frame shocked me, especially given how pronounced her curves were in our younger years, and tears welled up in my eyes yet again. In the decades since Angelique and my son had died, I could count the number of times I’d cried on one hand. In the past 72 hours, though – as I realized that my best friend’s kid, and my best friend’s girlfriend, were alive and well, and that the Uprising was bigger than I’d ever imagined – the tears came quickly and flowed easily, and I couldn’t decide if this was a sign of strength or weakness on my part. Rosie slipped a shimmering white camisole over her emaciated frame, which she then tucked into a pair of white linen slacks. I couldn’t get over how thin she’d gotten, then wondered if this was by her own design, or if she was under orders from that evil husband of hers. No way would Jordan be cool with this, I thought to myself. On his fucking grave would this go on. On his fucking grave. And wouldn’t you know it – here we are, on his fucking grave. I saw Rosie leave the room and begin to head down a flight of stairs, and I took that as an opportunity to get her alone, away from the rabid Cabal and out of sight of the vainglorious Emperor. She’d taken a few steps away from her building, and into Emperor’s Park, before passing by the wilting star magnolia tree that I was hiding behind. It was only when I saw the back of her slicked back, perfect ponytail – what a difference from the one she was wearing when we first met, I thought – that I saw the opportunity to get her alone and began walking behind her. “You’ve come a long way from making arepas on Ludlow Street,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder when I finally caught up with her. She spun around, her face scrunched up in fear, and for a split second, I thought she was going to hit me. But just as quickly, she relaxed as her eyes registered who owned the disembodied voice. “Jamie,” she whispered tearfully. “You’re here. You’re alive. I didn’t realize…” “How the hell did you not?” I asked, furrowing my eyebrows and side-eyeing her. “Your damned husband has been hunting me for decades.” “I knew that,” she said, taking ragged breaths. “But just the fact that he was never able to take you alive led me to believe that you were…you know…” Her voice trailed off. I wasn’t convinced, and I continued to stare at her intently as I scratched my left cheek, which was now beginning to show the first signs of salt-and-pepper beard stubble. “First of all, why the hell are you talking like you’re Queen Elizabeth? Second, let me just state it for the record: you give your asshole husbandway too much credit if you think he can take me down.” Rosie bit her lower lip, then shifted her eyes down. I put my hand under her chin and tipped her face up, forcing her eyes to meet mine as I tried, desperately, to search for a sign of the Rosie I once knew. “Rosie,” I whispered intently. “It’s me. You don’t have to hide from me.” Her face was a blank slate. “My name is Rose. Rose Cunningham,” she said with flat affect. “Oh, bullshit,” I whispered, even more intently. “Whatever happened to ‘call me Rosie, everyone else does’? What happened to that woman who was makingarepas in the kitchen with my Angelique?” That got her attention, and her deep brown eyes flashed with fire as she balled up her fists and began swinging at me. “You shit! You bastard! You did it! You almost killed my baby!” I ducked, bobbed and weaved, avoiding each blow as I carefully tried to talk her down from the ledge. “Rosie! What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t do that shit! I swear!” She continued to swing at me. “Yes! Yes, you did!” she squealed tearfully, repeating the same “yes, yes” with each swing, her voice getting louder each time. “Do you want to knock it off before the fuckin’ Cabal finds us, Rosie? The fuck is wrong with you? Jesus Christ!” I was shouting despite myself and began scanning the landscape frantically for Cabal soldiers that would have undoubtedly heard us, all while bobbing and weaving like a prizefighter to avoid getting punched in the face. She swung even harder and squealed even louder. “You tried to kill my baby! Just like you killed yours!” That line finally got me to react, and I had to steady my breathing to stop from clocking her in the mouth. Even in the throes of the worst of my Faustian behavior, I never hit a woman, and neither did any of my bandmates – the thought of violence against a woman, let alone a woman we’d loved, didn’t even cross our drug-addled minds. Instead, I grabbed her wrists and forced them down to her sides, holding them in place at hip level as she struggled, trying to hit me, until she finally began whimpering in defeat. “Now you listen to me, Ramira Diaz, and you listen well,” I began, angrily. “You may have forgotten everything you were and are, but I sure as fuck haven’t forgotten a goddamn thing, and let me rest assure you, I never fuckin’ will.” Her lower lip was trembling, her eyes were watering, and it became evident that she was on the verge of tears. Still, I continued. “So, let me get a few things out of the way now, so we’re not confused. Number one: that blast? It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anyone tied to me. It wasn’t anyone whose name I can even spell. Because let me assure you, again, that if it were me, or anyone tied to me, we’d have burned down the entire fuckin’ city, even if it meant killing ourselves in the process, and wouldn’t have left a survivor anywhere on this God-forsaken island. “Number two: you know goddamn well I didn’t kill Angelique or our baby. Now I wear their death on my heart every. Fucking. Day. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in twenty fucking years, from the day they were killed, because I can’t get their murders out of my mind. There are times I wish I was dead, just so that I don’t have to live with the guilt of their murders, but no, here I am, and ain’t that a fuckin’ bitch from Hell. I’d give all the money in the world to have my Angelique back. I’d trade my life for Jordan’s any day of the week. And my son – my only legacy – never had a chance at life, and you think that’s all fair? “Number three – and this is the most important part, Rosie, goddamnit, you’d better fuckin’ listen to this if you listen to nothing else: remember that promise I made to you in the hospital room? All those years ago? Because I fuckin’ do. And that’s why when Evanora and Tommy came down the Bowery after the blast, and I realized who she was, I made sure she was safe and clean and warm…” Rosie looked shocked. “Wait. She came to you?” I searched her face, trying to see if I could register where her loyalties lie before I continued to answer the question. For some reason, however, I couldn’t make it out. I even tried to read Rosie’s mind using a gentle form of psi, but I still couldn’t read her mind at all. It was like trying to probe a brick wall. So, to protect Evanora – and the rest of us – I chose to cover my tracks. “Yeah,” I said airily, “she mentioned something about listening to Uprising Radio.” The name of Uprising Radio registered some type of recognition with Rosie, and her eyes lit up slightly. “My baby has heard Uprising Radio?” “I don’t know for sure,” I continued, still adopting an airy affect, “but I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.” Using my Cabal training, I put a mental wall between my thoughts and Rosie, mostly because I didn’t know how much training she’d had in the psi arts, and I wasn’t sure if she, too, could read my mind. And if, God forbid, her loyalties lied with that pathetic excuse of her husband, I could at least protect, if not myself, then the whole Uprising movement. I made sure the wall was firmly in place before I continued. “I think I’ve heard Uprising Radio a few times, but I don’t know much about it, who does it, or anything of the sort.” “Yeah,” Rosie said, hesitantly, behind a mental brick wall of her own, “I have no idea, either.” We were calmer, now – our breath was steady, our thoughts were collected, and Rosie’s fists were limp. I finally felt confident that she wasn’t going to try to hit me again, so I loosened my grip on her wrists. But I suddenly found myself unable to let her go, so I slid my hands from her wrists to her hands and grabbed her fingers lightly. I was overcome with emotion. “What is it, Jamie?” Her voice was cracking. I exhaled loudly, then drew in a ragged breath. “Do you think about him, Rosie? Do you think about Jordan at all?” She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to fall as she exhaled shakily. “Every day of my life,” she said softly. “There’s not a day that goes by that Jordan doesn’t cross my mind. Every time I look at Evanora – every time I hear her laugh – he comes to my mind. Sometimes, she gives me this look – you remember, Jamie? You remember when Jordan would hear something that was just too stupid for words, and he would get this look on his face, like, ‘were you dropped on your head as a child?’” – and to this, I gave a half-smile and a nod – “and now, she gets that look. And that one eyebrow” – she took her finger and drew on her left eyebrow – “it would just go up like…like…” She dropped her hand as her voice trailed off, her eyes filling with tears. I nodded my head, closed my eyes, and sighed. “Fuckin’ guy,” I said, opening my eyes and looking at Rosie. “So. You didn’t see me, right?” Rosie smiled and winked at me. “Ivan Sapphire? Please. Get over yourself, rock star.” She squeezed my hands one last time for good measure. “I’m going to leave now. I’m not going to look back because I don’t want to see where you’re going. This way, if someone with bad intentions against you asks me if I know where you are, I can answer honestly when I say I don’t know. But just because I don’t look back, doesn’t mean I want to see you go. I need you to understand that, Jamie Ryan. I don’t need you to over-analyze things that don’t need over-analyzing. I need you to let me go, Jamie Ryan, and I need you to know that I love you, and I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” She finally let go of my hands, gave me a slight nod, then turned and walked back to her home. I watched her, silently, keeping the promise I made so long ago to Jordan Barker and didn’t leave what was once known as Central Park until I saw, for sure, that she was safe inside.
GIVEAWAY!
I am so excited that CINDERELLA'S INFERNO by F.M. Boughan is available now and that I get to share the news!
If you havenât yet heard about this wonderful book by Author F.M. Boughan be sure to check out all the details below.
This blitz also includes a giveaway for a $10 Amazon Gift Card courtesy of F.M. and Rockstar Book Tours. So if youâd like a chance to win, enter in the Rafflecopter at the bottom of this post.
About The Book:
Title: CINDERELLA'S INFERNO (Cinderella, Necromancer #2)
Author: F.M. Boughan
Pub. Date: May 28, 2018
Publisher: Month9Books
Formats: Hardcover, Paperback, eBook
Pages: 324
Purity cannot abide the darkness.
Itâs been two years since Ellison defeated her stepsisters and sent her evil stepmother back into the Abyss. Though sheâs learning to control her dark magic and has spent time traveling with Prince William and bringing peace to the kingdom, one fact remains. She is a necromancer and he is a paladin of light. And so, the king refuses to give his blessing for them to marry. To appease his father, William has begun to avoid her. But when even her younger brother Edward grows distant, Ellison learns her motherâs spirit has been visiting Edward in secret, threatening to overwhelm him with her own loneliness and longing. When Ellison accidentally touches her motherâs spirit, her tainted touch condemns her motherâs spirit to eternal damnation. Ellison resolves to descend into hell to save her motherâs soul and bring her physical body back to the world of the living. William hopes this good deed will bring Ellison into favor and finally allow them to be wed. But the journey through hell is fraught with peril. Temptations abound and the demons Ellison sent back to the Abyss are thirsty for revenge. Evil cannot be defeated without sacrificeâbut when that sacrifice means choosing between the ones Ellison loves and her very own life, how far is she willing to go to make her family whole again?
About Book 1:
Title: CINDERELLA NECROMANCER
Author: F.M. Boughan
Pub. Date: September 5, 2017
Publisher: Month9Books, LLC
Pages: 324
Formats: Paperback, eBook
CINDERELLA,NECROMANCER is CHIME meets ANNA, DRESSED IN BLOOD and was inspired by a real medieval grimoire of necromancy from 15th-century Germany.
Ellison lost her mother at an early age. But since then, her father has found love again. Heâs happy and doesnât quite notice that Ellison does not get along with his new wife or her mean daughters. When Ellison discovers a necromantic tome while traveling the secret passages of her fatherâs mansion, she wonders if it could be the key to her freedom. Until then, she must master her dark new power, even as her stepmother makes her a servant in her own home. And when her younger brother falls incurably ill, Ellison will do anything to ease his pain, including falling prey to her stepmother and stepsistersâ every whim and fancy. Stumbling into a chance meeting of Prince William during a secret visit to her motherâs grave feels like a trick of fate when her stepmother refuses to allow Ellison to attend a palace festival. But what if Ellison could see the kind and handsome prince once more? What if she could attend the festival? What if she could have everything she ever wanted and deserved by conjuring spirits to take revenge on her cruel stepmother? As Ellisonâs power grows, she loses control over the evil spirits meant to do her bidding. And as they begin to exert their own power over Ellison, she will have to decide whether it is she or her stepmother who is the true monster.
Exclusive Excerpt
Williamâs panic was plainly engraved across his features. âI wonât let them do this to you. Youâre my betrothed. You belong here in the palace, by my side, not shackled in the dungeon.â
He should have known as well as I did that a prison couldnât hold me, but seeing the disgust on his fatherâs face ⦠well, there was a greater plot at play than I understood, and I didnât want William to suffer even more for my sake than I already asked of him.
âItâs all right.â I released my conjured spirit, permitting its return beyond the veil. It slipped through a seam in the air and the soldiers didnât waste a moment before placing the restraints around my wrists.
âIâll have you out as fast as I can,â William said, placing a chaste and yet defiant kiss on my forehead. He lingered, and so in my own surge of defianceâoh, my damnable soul, I cannot explain why I do these thingsâI lifted my head to slide my mouth upon his. His lips were soft and tasted of sweet wine, and I felt him press against me without hesitation.
It had been so long. I wished to sink into the earth with him then and there and remain that way for all time, but gasps arose from the assembled guests and a tug at my sleeve pulled us apart. The soldiers had grasped my shoulders and arms to drag me from William, who watched, still stricken and unable to calm his emotions, as I was pulled from the Great Hall.
As the doors swung closed behind me, my motherâs face came once again to mind. Without William, I wouldnât be able to help her. I would never see her again, and she might spend all eternity enduring new torturesâhorrors unimaginable, paying for sins she did not commitâalongside the most abhorrent dregs of humanity.
I could not allow it. How much was I willing to give?
About F.M. Boughan:
F.M. Boughan is a bibliophile, a writer, and an unabashed parrot enthusiast. She can often be found writing in local coffee shops, namely because itâs hard to concentrate with a cat lying on the keyboard and a small, colorful parrot screaming into her ear. Her work is somewhat dark, somewhat violent, somewhat hopeful, and always contains a hint of magic.
You can follow Faith on Twitter (@FaithBoughan) for plenty of flailing about food (she likes to cook!), TV shows (she watches too many), and world dance (did you know she's been performing & instructing in Bollywood-style dance for over 8 years?).
Or catch her on Facebook where she just might post pictures of her adorable cat & bird... among other things.
F.M. Boughan is represented by Bill Contardi of Brandt & Hochman.
Giveaway Details:
1 winner will receive a $10 Amazon Gift Card.
a Rafflecopter giveaway Crown of Ruin
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Google Play -- EXCERPT: “How long have you lived at Court, Diana?” She leans forward, bracing her forearms against the edge of the table. Her features are hard, her face angular. I think she just permanently looks angry. “For about three hundred years.” “And you were born here, yes?” I prompt. She nods. I smile, nodding. “I would like to tell you a story, Diana,” I say, mirroring her posture. “A story of when our kind very first came into being. When my husband made himself into the ultimate hunter, but also cursed himself with the craving of blood.” Diana’s eyes widen a bit and her entire body tightens slightly. “I watched in horror as he hunted down his first human. I saw his tears as they fell down his face in remorse. Cyrus, the first vampire, like yourself, craved blood and he could not resist the urge to drink. So people went missing and the rumors began to spread in our town.” I can picture it all. Every detail. Every memory. The beginnings when I wore the face of Sevan and had never died a single death. But in this moment, I pay exact attention to my words. I control every line and every thought. “And then when there were two of us, the whisperings grew louder. Dark eyes turned our direction. Our lives were torn apart. We had to leave, or we knew they would turn against us.” I shiver as I think of that first night in the forest. “We lived like animals in the woods,” I continue. “And every night, we moved, because always during the day, they hunted us through the forest. With knives and primitive weapons. We didn’t know how they would hurt us. For months and months we were driven from place to place, constantly pushed by fear.” Diana sits there, very, very still. Frozen. She’s hardly even breathing as she listens to my story. “After I gave birth, we were once more on the run. One of us would always kill, and most of the time we were not discovered, but the times we were…” I shiver, remembering the terror. “We were strong, we could defend ourselves, but it was the two of us against the entire world. A population of billions.” I look up and meet her eyes. I lean forward slightly, our faces only a foot apart. “Roter Himmel was a god-send,” I say. “After years of living in fear and uncertainty, we had somewhere safe. Somewhere we did not have to hide what we were. We grew our family here. We loved and cherished here.” I sit back, my eyes darkening. “There are over eight billion people in this world, Diana,” I say straight and blunt. “There are roughly fifty-thousand vampires, Born, Royal, or the few Bitten left, throughout the world. There are forces at work in this moment that are trying to destroy Roter Himmel. They would expose our kind to the world, perhaps to change the system. To create a new monarchy. Perhaps to attempt to take over the world.” I sit forward again, locking my eyes on hers. “Fifty-thousand of us, eight billion of them. I’m not willing to take on those odds and lose the peace and protection of Roter Himmel. Are you willing to take that risk, Diana?” Her expression has been going slack, slowly, over this entire story time. Her eyes are open, her lips slightly parted. “We all look the same, loyal or betrayer,” I say. “This may take some time. But if even one of them slips through the cracks, it could mean the end of us all. Are you ready to take the risk, Diana?” She blinks five times, as if clearing the fog of my story from her brain. “No,” she whispers. “Do you want to be hunted one day, 160,000 to one?” I ask her. “No,” she immediately says. “Do you understand why I must be careful and thorough?” “Yes, my Queen.” She says it with a little bow of her head.
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Relegation
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo EXCERPT: “What’s going on?” Michael asked. I thought it was Michael. No, maybe it was Travel. Everything spun, my head stretching and coming back as if I’d rocketed down an elevator shaft. Hands caught me under my arms. Whose hands? I didn’t know. My feet hit the floor, but my knees buckled, and as I was lifted again, I opened my eyes and caught a blur of the room—wood paneling, a pedestal holding a vase of red flowers, and an oriental carpet under my feet. What was wrong with me? My heartbeat thumped in my ears, the muscles in my legs refused to respond to my mental commands, and my skin hurt as tiny dots of pain erupted from my bones and spread to the surface of my limbs. “They need to be separated,” a male shouted. They? Who was they? His words were sharp and desperate, bordering on panic. The grip under my arms shifted to my waist and my upper body. Limp and trembling with each beat of my heart, I fell against the person holding me. It was Michael. I recognized his spicy cologne and the width of his shoulders against mine. “Michael, don’t you see what’s happening?” It was Travel. Now I recognized his voice, too, a voice marked with the same cast of anxiety in “Travel,” I tried to say. Or maybe I did say it. Had my lips even moved? A numbing heat whipped up my spine and spread through my shoulders and neck. My chin dropped to my chest, and the fuzzy red, white, and green colors I’d seen were replaced with the grey blur of my prison uniform. “Take her away—now!” Michael shouted, his words seeping deep into my ear where the sounds writhed and burned, the sensation spreading to my forehead. With each exhale, my hot breath pooled against my chest, stoking my lightheadedness. “Get her out of here,” Michael said again. “Hurry!” Her? Who? Me? VW2? Where was my daughter? Michael’s arms were empty, and my own still hung loosely at my sides and hit dumbly against my body when he shifted me closer to him. “That’s his niece. You just can’t…” Whose voice was that? It was a presidential voice with its commanding yet concerned tone. It had to be Dabner. I wasn’t his niece. I wasn’t anybody’s niece in this century. Who was he talking about?
GIVEAWAY!
Biography, Business
Date Published: May 2018
CLAIM INSANITY OR BE FIRED!
Ex-Casino Employee Spills All of the Unseen Corruption
Running Rampant in the Business!
Ideas flow freely through the work environment, and the good ones are scooped up and put into action. But what happens when your ideas are suddenly being claimed by someone else? What if you found out that your employer was hiding secrets from the public? A job is supposed to secure one's finances, but what if it was actually the cause of your financial troubles?
All of these questions - and more! - are addressed in Pascale Batieufaye's tell-all memoir, Outfoxing the Gaming Club: A Former Worker Reveals All. From the kitchen to guest services, Batieufaye exposes the corruption and exploitation present in one of the world's biggest casinos, Resort Casino, where he worked from 1996 to 2004
Through the book's pages, Batieufaye details how corporate executives undermine their employees and use their ideas as their own, as he found was done with his own ideas when he shared them with leadership at the gambling powerhouse. He also details the mistreatment of the Native Americans he witnessed, who built the very grounds that now contribute to their injustice.
"I have centered Outfoxing the Gaming Club on the emotional suffering I faced while working for my previous employer,"shares Batieufaye. "The book outlines guiding principles for those who have experienced maltreatment and anxiety in their own workplace. Readers will discover the crookedness that occurs right under the noses of the patrons, and unearth the oppression that the employees had to deal with on a daily basis."
An exposé for both gamblers and those opposed to it,this book details:
· How his own ideas were stolen from right under Batieufaye's feet
· The mistreatment of Native Americans involved with the company
· Corruption's role in the mental health of himself and other employees at the company
· Gambles employees took when attempting to contribute, knowing all too well they may not receive proper credit for those ideas
· The emotional suffering that workers had to deal with on a daily basis
· And so much more!
About the Author
Pascale Batieufaye attended Johnson & Wales University, where he studied travel and tourism. He is technically an animal rights activist and aspires to open an animal rehabilitation center for rescue animals. His principal occupation has been a part time school bus driver since the end of 2012, which allowed him to write five unpublished manuscripts in his spare time. Before that, Batieufaye ran a video store which closed up at the hype of Netflix’s driven internet power. He has also held some backbreaking jobs, such as courier driver (independent contractor) and Skycap/baggage handler, although nothing seems to take as much of a toll as his work with a major, corrupt casino corporation did, as detailed in his book Outfoxing the Gaming Club.
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One True Love
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Smashwords -- EXCERPT: What a peculiar place. I couldn’t decide if the entire kingdom was just that naïve or if all this pleasantry was part of the grand trap they were about to spring on us. Making a face, I clutched the sword at my side and nodded before cracking my neck from one side to the other. Open minded. Sure. Until they tried to kill us, anyway. I opened the door and glanced around for danger. Unable to spot any, I reluctantly folded down the steps and hopped to the ground before managing to somehow angle my body so I could assist Allera on her descent and not turn my back to a single guard. A dignitary whose bangs on his blond hair were clipped far too short stepped forward, bearing a scroll under one arm. My return scowl seemed to disconcert him, making him shy a step back. After fumbling to unroll the scroll with shaking hands, he read us the greeting, then let us know he would lead us to the Throne Room where King Caulder and his brother Prince Brentley were waiting to receive us. Allera was all smiles and patient nods, thanking the man. I stood stonily at her elbow until we set off after Short Bangs. Wrapping both hands around the front buckle of my sword belt, I strode beside her, back rigid and gaze alert, as I took in the beauty of the palace. Everything here seemed new and clean. Spotlessly perfect, in fact. I couldn’t find a flaw anywhere in all its excellence. Which made me itch. Literally. I shook my head at the insistent sensation that quite abruptly wouldn’t leave me, and I scratched my temple heartily. Didn’t help. When I kept scratching it, Allera shifted closer to me and hissed from the side of her mouth, “What the devil are you doing? Stop that. You’re going to make our entire clan look like deranged lunatics by the way you keep fondling your eye.” “I can’t help it.” My fingernails raked relentlessly over the spot on the side of my left eye, unable to make the skin stop prickling. “My mark’s itching like a bastard.” “Well, you know what that means, don’t you?” She sounded irritated. “And I said STOP scratching it already. People are staring.” In front of us, Short Bangs glanced back curiously. Offering him a tight smile, I dropped my hand back to my belt, and he faced forward again. My smile instantly morphed into a glare, which I shot Allera’s way. How was it that she still talked down to me as if I were a child? I’d led battles, controlled my own fleet of ships, bedded some of the most beautiful, exotic women in three realms, and gotten the king of Lowden to kneel before me because of my intimidating presence after my army had defeated his. Yet Allera wiped all that prestige away with a single, degrading glance. Older sisters could suck the man right out of a fellow, I swear. “What does it mean, oh wise one?” I mocked moodily, winking one eye so it would wrinkle that cheek in an effort to alleviate the sensation without actually touching it. That didn’t help either, dammit. “That I’m allergic to the kingdom of Donnelly? I could’ve told you that.” I glanced around at the servants who’d stopped working to watch us pass. Even they looked clean and well-clothed. It was just plain weird. And suspicious. Could one kingdom really have this much wealth and good standing with their peasants and be so goddamn welcoming? “No, you nimrod.” Allera sighed and shook her head. “It means your one true love is near.” Forgetting about the peculiarity of my surroundings, I stopped walking and swung around to gape at my sister incredulously. “THE HELL YOU SAY!”
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