Gill’s life experiences have informed her writing.  For example, her mother’s death when she was a small child, influenced her first book, Vex Not Her Ghost, where the heroine has to delve into the past to uncover the real circumstances of her mother’s death, the cover up and the ongoing corruption.  Her experiences as a social work academic governs the plot of her second book, Sister Olive Wouldn’t Hurt a Fly.  In this book the fatal combination of a researcher’s mental collapse and a sociopathic opportunist give rise to a cliffhanging finale.

 Reviewers have said that Gill writes the sort of books in which you find yourself racing to the end, whilst not wanting to finish.  Her characters are compelling, well-drawn and sensitively portrayed.  In her books bad people get what they deserve, but it is never quite what it seems.

 She is currently writing her third book. 

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“I’m going to kill my sisters. All of them,” Essence said through gritted teeth, attitude dangling from each word before she turned narrowed eyes on him. “You know what they’re trying to do, don’t you? You have to know.”

It took everything within Jackson not to smile because she was adorable when she was mad. Which he didn’t witness often. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied, earning him a deeper glare.

Okay, maybe he knew now, but not at first. He hadn’t thought much of it when Nyla told him of the change because it wasn’t unusual for him and Essence to share a room. But now that he knew her sisters might be trying to push them together, Jackson was totally onboard with their scheming. They all knew how much he adored Essence and how close they were, but they also knew Essence was afraid to move out of the friend zone. It would be just like them to butt in.

He and Essence exited the elevator, and Jackson followed a few steps behind her as she practically stomped down the hallway to their room. She might’ve been pissed, and he probably should be thinking about how he was going to get her to lighten up, but damn her ass looked good in that dress. Watching her shapely hips sway back and forth rhythmically made his body stir in response. Hell, if he could get her to calm down, maybe they could have some fun tonight. It was a new year. A perfect time to start a new chapter in their story. And a little rendezvous in a luxury hotel would only add to the fun.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Essence glanced over her shoulder at him without missing a step. If eyes could shoot invisible daggers, she was definitely shooting them at him, and he felt them square in the chest.

So much for living out a few fantasies tonight. Clearly, the hotel room would be for sleeping only.

Normally, Essence was sweet, kind, and would do anything for anyone. She also had a good sense of humor and took her family’s antics in stride. She didn’t usually trip over stuff like this, especially since she and he often shared a hotel room. The two of them, and sometimes Tray, vacationed together more often than not. Staying in the same room was a norm. So, it was out of character to see her this pissed.

Essence already had her keycard out when she stopped in front of their hotel room door. Seconds later, she stormed inside the room. She didn’t seem to care if he followed her in or not.

Jackson sighed, catching the door before it slammed in his face. This was going to be a long night. He didn’t want to argue, and Essence had every right to be mad—just not at him. She was probably looking forward to relaxing in a beautiful hotel room after a long day. Hell, a couple of long weeks, and here he was crashing any solitude she thought she’d get.

Or maybe she was mad because she had planned to invite that punk ass Romero to the room after the reception.

That thought had Jackson wanting to question her about the guy. Had their relationship moved up from just casual dating? Instead of asking, he kept his mouth shut. She was angry at her sisters, and he didn’t need her to take it out on him. He didn’t have siblings, but he’d been around hers enough to know they all drove each other nuts sometimes.

“Oh, and if you think we’re sleeping in the same bed, think again,” Essence snapped, tossing his duffel bag, which had been on the edge of the king size bed, to the sofa.

Jackson yawned, then slid out of his tuxedo jacket and laid it across the arm of the sofa. Next went the bowtie. “Essence, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I do know one thing. I’m not sleeping on the sofa.”

Copyright © 2026 Sharon. C. Cooper

USA Today bestselling author Sharon C. Cooper loves anything involving romance with a happily-ever-after, whether in books, movies, or real life. She writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense, as well as romantic comedy. She enjoys rainy days, carpet picnics, and family game night. Her stories have won numerous awards, including The Rochelle Alers Best Series award for her Atlanta’s Finest Series (2022) and The Beverly Jenkins Author of the Year award (2021). When she isn’t writing, Sharon loves hanging out with her amazing husband, doing volunteer work, or reading a good book (a romance of course). To read more about Sharon and her novels, or to sign up to be notified of her latest releases, visit www.sharoncooper.net

  

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She rubbed the back of her head, felt a small lump, and winced. Her head was throbbing. Her knee was yelling at her and now she heard angry, men’s voices.

One of them yelled, “Over there! There she is. Get her!”

Another pulled out a long knife and they ran toward her.

Amy rushed into the woods. Turning around, she could see they were catching up to her.

Up, Amy, up. They won’t be looking up.

She climbed an oak tree as high as she could. Pulling on the long skirt, she squatted on a branch.

The branch felt odd and slithered underneath her. A large, looming face in the shape of a dragon stared at her unblinking.

Holy cr—

The creature put a long claw to its mouth and said, “Shhh.”

Amy took a deep breath. A scream was building inside her but before she could release the ear-piercing screech, she was muzzled by the creature. Her heart jolted as its wing enveloped her and she lost consciousness.

A few moments later, she was gulping for air. Fully expecting to open her eyes and see the hotel lobby, she was stunned to be staring into the eyes of a dragon.

–A dragon, a huge dragon with big, green eyes.

You’re safe.

Amy shook her head. “No. No, I’m not. There’s no okay in this, whatever this is at all. This is crazy. Why is this happening?”

Where did you come from?

She stared at his mouth. It wasn’t moving.

This hallucination was freaking weird. A talking dragon that didn’t move his lips. They’re going to take her away and leave her in the psych ward for the rest of her life.

Her eye began twitching. It wasn’t real. None of it makes sense.

Think, Amy. Dragons aren’t real. How could a dragon talk?

Anything can happen in a hallucination. She repeated to herself. This isn’t real.

Was she dead? Is this purgatory? Her own personal nightmare of an afterlife? Could she have injured herself so badly that she died?

She wasn’t a bad person. It certainly wasn’t in Hades. Well, it better not be Hades.

A talking, psychic dragon communicating with his mind.

Of course, it makes soooo much more sense.

She watched as the men ran into the woods, searching for her.

The dragon spoke in a deep, soothing voice, “Why are you dressed in that garb?”

Amy stared at the huge beast.

The beast’s green eyes penetrated her with a questioning glare.

“A— a party. We were going to a party.”

He looked at the bracelet.

“Someone put them in my shopping bag.”

“Let’s go. We need to get you into normal clothing. I’ll take you to Bev’s.”

Amy started climbing down the tree.

“No, no.” The dragon grabbed her and placed Amy on his back before taking flight.

Amy squealed, inhaled and released another louder scream.

“Stop.” His body jolted. “Your obnoxious squawking is impaling my ears.”

Within a few moments, they soared through the air and flew from cloud to cloud.

Her stomach flipped and she swallowed the huge lump in her throat.

“Ugh, no ups and downs, please.”

He laughed. “No quick drops? You’re the slow-boat kind of person.”

Her heart was finally returning to its normal beat. She was getting comfortable riding on his back and was beginning to enjoy the view.

“Whoa! This is awesome. I never have flying dreams.”

The dragon huffed.

Amy was mesmerized. It was freaking fantastic. The warm heat from the sun and soft air on her face, the flapping of his wings, it was glorious.

She could do this. It was peaceful. He was gliding along and she was euphoric.

Hold on.

“Hold on? No, don’t ruin the moment!”

The dragon took a deep dive. Amy let out an earsplitting shriek and gripped the back of his neck tighter as he gracefully landed on the ground in front of a small, wooden cabin.

He grunted in pain.

“Your fingernails are cutting into my skin.”

“Sorry.” Amy dismounted him like she would a horse.

“You don’t look like you’re sorry.”

She gave him an angry side-eye.

He grumbled, “Go. Tell her I sent you.”

“Um. You want me to knock on a stranger’s door, in the middle of BFE, and tell her a dragon sent me?”

 “We’re not in Egypt.”

She snapped, “What? We’re in the middle of freaking nowhere. That’s what BFE means!”

Ignoring her irritation, he responded, “We’re in Ireland.”

 “Ireland? I’ve never been to Ireland. How am I dreaming that I’m here? I’ve only seen pictures and this in not anything like the pictures.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. I don’t have a passport with me!”

She rubbed her forehead. Why would she need a passport in a dream?

“No worries.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ll be back in a blink. In the meantime, tell her Blaze sent you.”

“Oh, look. A fairy circle.”

His wide-eyed, incredulous stare gave her pause. He shook his head. “Wow.”

She shrugged.

“I can’t keep up with you.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. My mind goes really fast sometimes.” She limped toward the fairy circle.

“What are you doing?”

Amy chuckled. “Making a wish.”

He looked at her like she was growing horns.

“Um, yeah. Make a wish and the fairies will grant it only if they see fit. You have to watch out for all the fairies protecting the fairy circle. You don’t want to step on them, you know.”

Amy stepped back from the circle. “Hello, little fairies. I hope you’re having a pleasant day.”

He harrumphed and walked away.

“Hey, it’s my dream. I can do what I want.”

Amy raised her hand to knock, but never made contact. An elderly woman, in her mid-seventies, opened the door.

“Oh, I thought I heard Blaze’s voice.”

“I’m Amy. He told me to tell you—”

The woman opened the door wider. “Come in. The sun’s going to be setting soon and it’ll be a bit chilly.”

The elderly woman had light hair, dark blue eyes, and a wide, pleasant smile. Her hair was rolled up into a bun tucked on the back of her head. Amy’s memories immediately went to the cartoon with the grandma lady who owned the canary, Tweety.

Amy cautiously entered the house and as she turned to look about, a man rushed through the doorway.

He was an average-looking man except for his eyes. They gleamed an effervescent green. The man’s dark hair was a deep contrast to his light skin.

She never cared for the five o’clock shadow but it did do him justice.

“There you are, Blaze.” She handed him a mug.

“Thank you, Bev.”

“Mark on his way?”

“Soon. He has a few things he needs to take care of before he comes.”

Mark? As in Harlow?

Bev turned to Amy. “What would you like, dear? I’ve got some hot tea on the table or, if it pleases, I can pour another draught.”

“T—”

“She needs normal clothes.”

Amy glared at Blaze. “And who are you?”

“I’m the man who saved your skinny bum and brought you here.”

“And how, pray tell, did you do that? A dragon…” Her voice trailed off.

Bev looked puzzled. “So, she’s not from medieval times?”

“No.”

“She didn’t time-travel here?”

“No.”

Time travel? Amy interrupted, “I can speak for myself.”

“Really?” He snorted. “Go ahead, darling, and explain how you got here.”

“Fine. I was at a party.” Amy flipped her hand in the air. “I tucked the jeweled comb in my wig and the next thing I knew, these men attacked me and I’ve been having this dream or possibly been unconscious ever since.”

Blaze sat at the table. “You’re not unconscious.”

“Then you tell me what’s happening.”

Bev took her arm. “Oh, sweetie, it’s been a day for you, hasn’t it? Sit, relax, and have a cuppa. I’ll get you some clothes that should fit you. We’ll get you all sorted out.”

The concern in Bev’s voice was telling.

Wariness clung to Amy as a hesitant smile tugged at her lips, a stark contrast to how she was feeling.

“I don’t need clothes. I just want to wake up.”

Bev asked, “Wake up?”

Blaze waved Bev’s question off and spoke to Amy, “Somehow, you’ve managed to get two very powerful and magical relics to bring you here. People have gone to war to possess the magical comb and bracelet.”

Amy grunted.

“Those men stole the relics to take over Mu and conquer the magical world. They will not hesitate to kill you for them.”

Amy bit her upper lip, repressing a nervous giggle. “Not ruby-red slippers? Will lightning flash from the jewelry when you try to remove it from my hair and wrist? Do I repeat ‘there’s no place like home’ three times?”

Blaze glowered. “I don’t find your sarcasm amusing.”

She removed the jeweled comb and handed it to Blaze. “Here. Take it.”

Bev glared at Blaze and tapped Amy’s hand. “Blaze can get you back to where you belong and to your party whenever you’re ready.”

“Good.” Amy put her wrist toward Blaze. “I’m more than ready.”

Blaze reached to take the bracelet off her wrist. “It won’t come off.”

Bev put her hand to her chest. “What?”

Amy’s voice shook in panic. “No, no, take it off!”

“It won’t come off.”

“Fine, then I’ll do it.”

She fiddled with the clasp and finally threw up her hands in frustration. “It won’t come off!”

Bev walked over to the cabinet and brought back a bottle of Irish whiskey and three glasses, and said, “It has begun.”

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Wall Street Journal bestselling, award-winning author, Pamela Ackerson is a time traveling adventurer. She was born and raised in Newport, RI where history is a way of life. She lives on the Space Coast of Florida where everyone is encouraged to reach for the stars!

Her literary journey is as diverse and adventurous as the time-traveling escapades she writes about. With a rich tapestry of genres at her fingertips, she weaves stories that span from the wild frontiers of the Old West to the intricate cultural tapestries of Native American history. Her work doesn’t stop at fiction; she delves into the realms of history, self-help, and even marketing, showcasing a versatility that resonates with a wide audience.

Ackerson’s presence on the Space Coast of Florida reflects her forward-thinking approach to writing, always aiming for the next big leap in her storytelling odyssey. Her prolific output is a testament to her dedication to her craft, inviting readers to join her in exploring the vast landscapes of human experience and imagination.

Honest reviews of Pamela’s books are always appreciated.

Absolutely no AI programs were used to create any story she has written.

Thank you and have a good moments day.

 

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“Dang, woman. You want to take my certification test for me?” She noticed with no small amount of satisfaction that, although he’d done a decent job, she’d bested him. Again.

“You’ll do fine,” she teased as she ejected the clip, put the gun down, and began to reload. Even with the EZ loader she’d gotten as a birthday gift from her parents a few years ago, she struggled to get the bullets in. Her father, an ex-cop himself, thought her lack of dexterity was hilarious.

“Here, let me help you.” Gregg closed the distance between them, standing so close she felt the heat of his body. The tang of cordite, pine trees, and the summer blooms scattered around the outdoor firing range tickled her nose, conspiring to make the moment sort of romantic as his rough, calloused hands met hers. The thought sent a zing of electricity through her that she couldn’t quite explain. Before this got any weirder, she stepped away.

“Gah, I could hear the ‘little lady’ part of that statement even without you saying it. I’ve got this, thanks anyway.”

Rather than be offended, he laughed. They continued practicing their firearm skills for another twenty minutes until Gregg complained the sound of Mel’s stomach rumbling was loud enough to be heard even through his protective ear gear. “It’s throwing off my aim. Are you ready to call it a day?” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Pizza?”

“You haven’t by chance changed your stance on the sushi spaghetti combo restaurant, have you?”

He laughed. “No way. You’re welcome to a sausage caterpillar roll. It’s a hard pass for me. Besides, the pizza joint carries Redrum beer.”

As they headed to his car, she teased him. “You can’t fool me, you’re a secret wine lover. And you “know the name for a type of sushi? I’m impressed.”

She slammed into him when he suddenly stopped walking. He turned and glanced down at her, standing a good six inches taller. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he put one hand out to steady her, the other to her lips. “Shh, I have a reputation to protect.”

For a moment, it looked like he was going to move in to kiss her. For a moment, Mel wanted him to. But whatever spark had been in his eyes wavered to uncertainty, and he ushered her to his car without another word.

****

“You’d better hope your boss never finds out you know all the words to that musical or he’ll insist on drug testing you.” Mel laughed as Gregg opened the lobby door for her, still murmuring away in a surprisingly pleasant singing voice. She didn’t normally wait for any man to open a door, but her hands were full, holding the box of pizza they’d gotten to bring back for the vultures she knew would be waiting for her at the inn. He held the door with one hand, a bottle of wine they planned on sharing while binging episodes of a British cop series they loved gripped in the other.

As she expected, Gemma, Grandma, and Poppy materialized from the great room at a speed that suggested they’d been sitting near the window watching for their return. Their grim expressions, however, made her stop short. “All right, out with it. Why are you three acting so weird? We’re twenty feet inside the door, and there hasn’t been one smart ass remark yet. Who died?” When no one answered, a cold dread bloomed in the pit of her stomach. She might have dropped the pizza if Poppy hadn’t snatched it out of her numb hands. “Seriously, is everyone okay? Did something happen? Is it Liam?”

“No, Mel, it’s me,” a voice said with a distinctly more pronounced Southern drawl than he’d had the last time they spoke. An exhausted, pale, but determined Jackson emerged from the shadows, rubbing at his temple as if to ease an ache. “I really need your help.”

Relief, anger, hope, and about a dozen other emotions Mel couldn’t identify came crashing down all at once. “I’m going to need you to open that wine,” she told Gregg.

He twisted the top off with his bare hand since their favorite brand of chardonnay didn’t use a “cork. “Done,” he said as he handed her the chilled bottle, the outside damp with sweat.

She took a healthy gulp straight out of the bottle before addressing Jackson. “All right, out with it. What do you want, and it better be good after the bullshit you pulled on me.”

“There’s been a murder.”

A Pine Cove Mystery Book 1

After a life-changing injury, Mel O’Rourke trades in her badge for bed sheets, running a B & B in the quirky mountain town of Pine Cove. Her peaceful life is interrupted when an old frenemy, the notorious and charismatic cat burglar, Poppy Phillips, shows up on her doorstep, claiming she’s been framed for murder. While she’s broken plenty of laws, Mel knows she’d never kill anyone. Good thing she’s a better detective than she is a cook as she sets out to prove Poppy’s innocence.

The situation gets complicated, however, when the ruggedly handsome Deputy Sheriff Gregg Marks flirts with Mel, bringing him dangerously close to the criminal she’s hiding. And just when her friendship with café owner Jackson Thibodeaux blossoms into something more, he’s offered the opportunity of a lifetime in New Orleans. Should she encourage him to go, or ask him to stay? Who knew romance could be just as hard to solve as murder?

 

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Mel gaped slack-jawed at her brother, whose palm covered his face. “Why did you kidnap Grandma?”

“I did not—ugh!” He answered from behind his hand before shaking off his frustration and moving to the back seat of the truck to grab their bags. “Mom forced me to bring her. That’s what the delay was all about. She’s been driving her crazy, and then this morning she lit the kitchen on fire.”

“She what?!”

“I wasn’t there, so I don’t know exactly, something about the toaster and a curtain. Anyway, Mom convinced her she should come help you out and halfway up the mountain she wove this kidnapping story.”

“Help me? How, by greeting guests with her charming personality?” She loved her grandmother, but her salutation and scathing condemnation of the inn with just one glance were pretty mild for the old woman. When she really got on a tear, the best thing was to go to a movie until she wore herself out.

“Beats me but pro tip, do not let her in the kitchen.” Balancing the bags in one hand, Liam enveloped her with his free arm. “At least, not until we make sure the insurance covers curtain fires.”

“No need to worry, I just hired someone today who is great in the kitchen.”

He looked at her askance. “Great as in better than you or someone who is actually a good cook?”

“Shut up.” She laughed in response to the insult. “The guests this morning raved about the food. For however long she stays, I think she’ll be a plus in the breakfast department, anyway.”

“Where did you find this culinary genius? Did you put out an ad already?” He held the door open for Mel and they entered the lobby.

“We didn’t, she found me.” She looked around. “Where’s Grandma?”

The echoes of laughter led the siblings into the Great Room where their grandmother sat in front of the fireplace chatting away with Poppy. They turned toward Mel and Liam as they entered.

“Mel, your mother is a hoot,” she gushed.

She narrowed her eyes at the alleged ex-thief, who had to know perfectly well the woman in front of her was too old to be her mother. Grandma O, however, took the compliment to heart and patted Poppy’s hand, gracing her with one of her rare beaming smiles.

To Mel’s surprise, Liam skidded to a dead halt. She turned back to see why and received the icy blast of the unmistakable storm in his eyes. She’d seen the same dark expression in the mirror when she was furious. What did he have to be so angry about? Before she could ask, he dropped their bags and launched into full hissy fit mode.

“You!” he bellowed at Poppy.

The brunette seemed sincerely surprised at his response. Swiveling her head to see who else was in the room and finding no one, she met his gaze and pointed to herself with an exaggerated, “Who, me?” expression.

Her brother spun, targeting his rage at her. “Don’t tell me this is who you hired?”

“You’re only being a grump because you haven’t tried her bacon,” she joked, hoping to deflate the situation. Years of trying to nail her for any number of jobs she’d pulled off had frustrated Mel, but she had to admit she always liked her style. Despite her suspicions when she found Poppy in the lobby this morning, so far she’d been nothing but charming and kind of fun, so what had she done to piss off easy-going Liam in the two minutes since they met?

Her brother crossed his arms, stubbornly jutting out his square jaw. “There’s no way that woman is working here. She nearly killed you once, I’m not giving her a second chance.”

“You two have met?” The information surprised her, so she let the macho b.s. slide for now. She didn’t need anyone to protect her, but his anger rolled off him so calling him on his chauvinism skittered close to throwing gasoline on a fire.

“We had to watch her on the news sound bites, taking her bows for saving your life, while you lay in that hospital bed, broken and in agony.” Mel had never seen his eyes blaze with such fury before. She’d been so focused on her own suffering she’d never thought about what her family had gone through. Liam clearly had been carrying steamer-trunk sized baggage. “Nobody bothered to mention she’s the one who put you in danger in the first place. Or that you’re crippled for life, thanks to her.”

“Crippled?” Poppy’s brows furrowed, her eyes darkening.

“Easy, drama queen,” Mel snarled, “nobody’s crippled.”

“We used to go rock climbing and now you can’t even mount a set of stairs without getting dizzy.” His exasperation exploded as he paced to the far end of the Great Room to stare out the floor-to-ceiling glass door at the patio and brook beyond. What really hurt was he sounded more bummed out for himself losing a climbing partner than concerned about her.

“Is that true?” Poppy sprang up.

“I’m working on it.” Embarrassed by the whole conversation, she busied herself with tidying the morning newspapers the guests had left strewn around the sitting area.

“She nearly killed you, she’s not working here,” Liam repeated without turning away from the view outside.

Grandma O’Rourke rose to her feet with more nobility than agility, stood between her two grandchildren, and pronounced, “I like her, and I say she stays,” before tottering off to the kitchen in a self-professed search for the infamous bacon.

Of course, she liked Poppy, she just paid her a huge compliment. Never mind if she was guilty of what Liam accused her of doing or not. After putting the last section of the newspaper back in place, Mel noticed the below the fold story on the front page and tightened her fist until she almost tore the paper in two.

Scientist Killed in Daring Heist

Marla White is an award-winning novelist who prefers killing people who annoy her on paper rather than in real life. Her first full-length mystery novel, “Cause for Elimination,” placed in several contests including Killer Nashville, The RONE Awards, The Reader’s Favorite, and finishing second in the Orange County Romance Writers for Romantic Suspense. Originally from Oklahoma, she lived in a lot of other states before settling down in Los Angeles to work in the television industry.  She currently teaches at UCLA Extension and gives seminars about the art of script coverage. When she’s not working on the next book, she’s out in the garden, hiking, cheering on the LA Kings, or discovering new craft cocktails.  

 

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“Goddamn it.”

“My God, Jacques,” she said. “They are taking him.” Their own luck had held. Thomas’s had not. “And he had been so clever. The boot heel. The shaving cream.”

“We have to go. Immediately!” Both watched, though only seconds more, until the Germans drove off with their prize, the barn behind them collapsing in flame. “Did you think he knew about Combourg?” Jacques asked her.

She had never mentioned it. They’d only met Thomas at the Laurent farm, in Épiniac. “As I recall, nothing was ever said to him about Combourg.”

“He would not know of the monsignor, Roger’s uncle,” she added. They had kept that secret. Claire rubbed at the palm of one hand, kneading it with the knuckle of the other.

“No. And he does not know our real names,” Jacques said. “But Roger Laurent could know.”

Jacques took her hand. “Thomas is lost, but what harm Roger could do yet is considerable. If he gives up Roger.”

“Will he? Where will they take him?” she asked as Jacques worked the truck around, knowing he was leaving behind his apples and, more importantly, his cover for travel.

“Saint-Lô, I would think. Some Nazi headquarters.”

As Jacques wrenched the truck sharply onto the road toward home, where the deeply distressed Claire would be able to arrange for her return to Bodney, a bottle scooted out from under her seat.

“Look at this,” she said, pulling it up from the floor. “It’s his Calvados.” Attempting to hold back tears.

“Keep it. We will finish it tonight in his honor with a tip of the hat to our friend.”

Passing near enough to the Laurent farm en route to Combourg, with relative safety still several kilometers away, Jacques pointed to the farmhouse. It was risky, but he had to take a look, remaining well back from potential observation. There, they were able to make out, standing near the entry door, the one thing they had hardly dared hope to see—a dark green motorcycle.

What Roger’s return portended was unclear, but given what had happened to Thomas, that outcome was surely the best they could have hoped for. Jacques slowed the truck and looked to the darkened house, their hearts racing.

“Oh my God. He’s come back.”

Jacques touched her hand.

She thought to say something, leaning into him. “Let’s go home, Jacques. Please!” Then added, “You did well, getting us through it all. So brave.”

“You and me,” he said. “We did. Together.” He touched her face tenderly.

In that moment, Jacques and Claire leaned toward each other for a necessary hug, and then a kiss. A kiss of relief. A kiss of what might yet be.

Poet, playwright and novelist, Arthur retired from full-time teaching, most recently as Visiting Assoc. Professor of English, at Converse College, in Spartanburg, SC. HIs books include: In the Orchards of Our Mothers (historical fiction novel); The Whole Picture Show (poetry) Musical Muse (academic); Birdies Never Die (golf); Givings & Misgivings (poetry) and The Spy Who Came Down with a Cold (poetry) and Need to Know (memoir).

Arthur’s first career was that of a foreign intelligence officer, with assignments with military intelligence and briefly with the CIA. Arthur earned an MFA degree in Poetry at University of Florida. Pushcart Prize nominations. He now teaches in Continuing Education Dept for Furman University (fiction and poetry). 

 

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Gill Calvin Thomas is a retired academic who lives with her husband in Swanage , UK.  She finds inspiration in the landscape around her – the Isle of Purbeck has a spectacular coastline and beautiful beaches, and it is whilst walking here, that Gill develops characters and plots the twists and turns you will find in her books.

 Gill’s life experiences have informed her writing.  For example, her mother’s death when she was a small child, influenced her first book, Vex Not Her Ghost, where the heroine has to delve into the past to uncover the real circumstances of her mother’s death, the cover up and the ongoing corruption.  Her experiences as a social work academic governs the plot of her second book, Sister Olive Wouldn’t Hurt a Fly.  In this book the fatal combination of a researcher’s mental collapse and a sociopathic opportunist give rise to a cliffhanging finale.

 Reviewers have said that Gill writes the sort of books in which you find yourself racing to the end, whilst not wanting to finish.  Her characters are compelling, well-drawn and sensitively portrayed.  In her books bad people get what they deserve, but it is never quite what it seems.

 She is currently writing her third book. 

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A former BBC broadcaster and journalist, Gill Mills brings over 20 years of experience in entertainment to her narration. Known for her warm, resonant voice, she began her voice career while DJing on BBC Radio 1 and has since voiced numerous TV and audio productions. She now runs a content company specialising in podcast and film production from her studio in East London.

 

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Avid dog lover and Author Rebecca Christo was born in Toronto, Ontario, where she developed an early love of both reading and writing. Of particular interest to her was creating a story with emotionally mature content that was still entertaining enough to be read for fun on a relaxing vacation. She hopes she’s succeeded with her very first published novel: Mirrored Wounds.

When she’s not travelling with her husband, Darcy Christo, Rebecca enjoys spending time with him, her children Ali, Brittany and Maxwell, and her puppies (Lucy and Winston) in Wasaga Beach, Ontario where she currently lives.

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PROLOGUE

Move, my brain screams—my arms and legs lag behind.

Blood pools behind her head, oozing out over the tile floor. Her eyes roll back into a blank stare. If I want to get out of here, this is my only chance. I don’t have much time before someone misses her.

I grab the key card out of her coat pocket and gingerly pull off her lab coat, being careful not to stain it with the growing river of blood.

As I slip on her white coat, my head darts around for something I can use as a weapon–but this isn’t a surgical center. No scalpels. No razors. Nothing sharp.

Syringes.

Scads of them.

Yes, this can work.

I fumble through the medicine cabinet, and it’s like a candy store for drug addicts.

Ketamine.

Midazolam.

Haldol.

Potassium chloride, instantly deadly.

But only if I can hit a vein.

Nope. Too risky.

I rip a syringe open with my teeth, push in the plunger, tear open the vial tabs, and stab the needle into the first vial, then the second. I fill the syringe with a lethal dose of ketamine and midazolam, hoping that it will work fast enough, if it comes to that.

Two or three minutes or so for onset, injected into a muscle.

I’ve never envisioned myself as a murderer. But what choice do I have?

Footsteps outside the door stop me in my tracks.

Someone’s hovering, and I can only hope they don’t call out her name.

She moans.

She’s alive?

What if she cries out for help?

Sweat moistens my palms as I wait. I wipe away the dampness, willing myself to calm down. I can’t afford to have slippery fingers with what I’m attempting.

Now it’s quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t hear footsteps or anyone leaving.

Are they just standing there?

Maybe they heard our scuffle?

If she makes a sound, I’m as good as dead.

I rip open another syringe, grab a vial of potassium chloride out of the cabinet, and fill it. On reflex, I tap it to get out the air bubbles, and a nervous chuckle slips out.

What’s the point of that?

I find a vein on the top of her hand, which is creepily warm. She seems to have passed out again, or else she’s dead. But I’m pretty sure she’s still alive, although I can always tell myself she wasn’t. But I’m not positive.

Can I actually do this?

For a split second, I hesitate.

Before this moment, it was self-defense.

It’s her or me, though, so I prepare to jab the needle into her vein.

Instead, I check again for a pulse.

She’s dead … I’m pretty sure.

The door handle turns.

I rush behind the door and ready my other syringe. My heart’s pounding so hard, I’m afraid someone will hear it. My pulse thrums in my ears as I await what’s next.

Then the handle catches, the lock saving me–or whoever’s on the other side.

I wait in stillness as the sound of a woman’s heels click, click, clicking on the tile floor fades to silence, willing my racing pulse to slow.

At least it’s not Cameron.

Then I make my move.

PART ONE

One month earlier

ONE

Nora

The pain is unbearable, deep in the pit of my stomach, the scars of a lifetime suddenly ripped open. I haven’t slept for days. I don’t even know my own mind.

Dipping in and out of consciousness, I’m kept barely functional by little microsleeps. My head aches behind my eyes. I’d give anything to fall into the black abyss, where all my problems dissolve into the quiet darkness.

Soft meditation music plays in the background.

“It’s not your fault,” a voice calls out to me. “Life is hard,” it continues, the ding … ding … ding of the bells hypnotic, comforting. “We can take away your pain. Come to Switzerland. Find your inner peace.”

Tears pool in my eyes.

“It’s all going to be okay,” I tell myself.

I click on the link.

It looks so peaceful there.

For the first time in months, I have hope.

Tears stream down my face as I absorb it all.

Taking away my pain.

It sounds so tempting.

I want to believe.

I need to believe.

So, I do.

And that is my first mistake.

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon bestselling author of fourteen domestic/psychological thrillers. Her thrillers feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time.  

Bonnie loves Hitchcock movies, psychological thriller novels, coffee, and dark chocolate, not necessarily in that order and sometimes simultaneously. She has a doctorate in United States history and resides in Honolulu with her family. She’s an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

 

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The bell rang again.

“Okay, I’m coming.” TC strode to the door and eyed the security camera.

“It’s Noah. And he’s drenched.”

Murphy’s heart pounded. Had he not been able to get into his house? Had he been standing out there all this time?

TC opened the door. “Noah, what in blue blazes are you doing out in this weather? Get in here.”

Noah stepped in and shook his body, not unlike a golden retriever.

“Did Murphy make it home safely?”

“Yes, she’s right there.” TC pointed to the sofa. Murphy had already stood and padded over.

“Were you not able to get in your house? I’m sorry I didn’t stay to—”

“No, I got in. I’ve been in. It’s just I wanted to ask you something…I’ve been thinking about you since you dropped me off and…”

“Excuse me,” TC whispered. She pivoted, made a hand motion to Eli and they both scampered away. Perhaps to one of the bedrooms. Why?

“Murphy, I was wondering if…well, would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

“You came out in this storm just to ask me to dinner?” She did her very best to look him in the eye. But his T-shirt clung to his chest, his very well-defined chest. Just like his dress shirt earlier. She bit her lip.

Noah nodded. “I needed to ask you before it I lost my nerve.”

What did he say? Lost his nerve?

“Well, I—”

“If you don’t want to, I understand. We’ve had our moments. I mean I didn’t need to chastise you for molesting flowers. Because obviously, you weren’t molesting flowers.”

“I remember that.” Murphy laughed. Should she tell him how his gray eyes hypnotized her while she taught him how to play with the snapdragons?

“And I interrupted your business call in your own backyard. How rich of me.”

“I remember that, too.” She couldn’t help but smile. The handsome man transformed into a shy teenager right before her very eyes. She didn’t dare tell him how she gawked at his butt as he left the yard. Maybe save it for the first date? Which looked as if it would be soon. Very soon.

“Well, the offer’s there. I should probably leave.”

Leave? “Without hearing my answer?”

“I thought I’d give you—”

“If you were going to say give me some time, I’ve had all the time I needed.”

“You have?” His eyes narrowed.

“Noah Andrews, I’d love to go out with you.”

His dimples appeared. His cheeks turned red. “Really?”

She laughed. “Really. Just let me know when.”

“How about tomorrow? Seven o’clock? I can come over and pick you up.”

Murphy’s face burned. Noah had actually asked her out. She probably shouldn’t have worried if those zings of electricity worked both ways. Apparently, they did.

“Perfect.” And it was. Everything about this man was perfect.

“Great.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yes, you will. But let me drive you home.”

“No. No reason for you to get all wet again. I’ll sprint home.” He opened the door. The rain still pummeled the ground.

“If you’re sure?” Murphy’s brow furrowed.

“I’m sure.” He leaned in close, so very close. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispered as if their date was a secret shared just between the two of them.

“Tomorrow,” she said breathlessly.

He nodded, and dashed down the walkway, his shorts clinging to his distinctly well-formed butt.

What just happened? Noah had asked her out. And she had accepted. In what universe was she living?

“Well, what did he want?” TC’s voice shook her out of her reverie. She and Eli stood in the living room.

“Did he ask you out?” Eli asked. “And did you say yes?”

“Were you listening?” Murphy asked.

“I wanted to listen,” Eli whined, “but TC closed the bedroom door. Something about giving you the privacy you deserve. Not sure what that was all about.”

Murphy laughed. “I appreciated the privacy.” She sighed and padded into the living room.

“Murphy!” TC and Eli said at the same time.

“What?” She sat in the recliner.

“What did Noah want? We’re waiting,” TC said.

“He did ask me out…to dinner…tomorrow…seven o’clock.” What had she done?

“That’s great.” TC bounced on her toes. “Where are you going?”

“Huh?”

“Where are you going to eat? Tomorrow? With Noah?” TC laughed.

Apparently, her shock was palpable. “I don’t know. I forgot to ask. I was so shocked he asked me.”

“He walked through a friggin’ tropical storm to ask you out,” Eli squealed. “How romantic.”

He did, didn’t he? What did he say? I’ve been thinking about you. So, when she wasn’t in his presence, she was in his thoughts? Really?

Terry Newman is an award-winning author who writes romantic comedy with a splash of fantasy.

Fueled by coffee, peanut butter, and popcorn, she writes stories set in fictional towns in northeast Ohio. Terry loves to place her characters in improbably situations, then allows them to take over…uhm…guide the story.

She lives in a small apartment with overflowing bookshelves, her muse, Moose, and all her characters, in North Lima, a real town in northeast Ohio. And, yes, it does get crowded at times.

 

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Baker City: Hearts and Haunts #6

by Josie Malone

Genre: Paranormal Ghost Romance

Former Army Ranger, Mac MacGillicudy served his country for almost twenty years, fighting in one hotspot after another. Since he retired from the military, he’s roamed the U.S., unaware he’s accompanied by a woman with a hidden agenda. He enjoys writing action-adventure romances which never turn out the way he plans or expects or designs. Still his agent, publisher, and readers love them. Learning he’s inherited the old family hotel, Mac heads to Baker City, Washington for Christmas. He’ll help restore the hotel, write his next book which will hopefully end the way he wants, and perhaps discover a home.

Registered Nurse, Lillian Bryce didn’t hesitate to answer the call when her country needed her after the attack on Pearl Harbor. She joined the US Army and went off to war but didn’t return home, at least not alive. Since she loved books, she went back to the Seattle Public Library where she’d spent so many happy hours. She was perfectly content studying, researching, observing and enjoying the other patrons—the live ones, until she saw Mac MacGillicudy. She was fascinated, focused on him—well on his writing, on his books, except he had them all wrong! So, she fixed them, not once, but again, and again, and again regardless of how many times he tried to change them while they traveled the country! Now, they’re off to Baker City.

Will the two of them find love in a place where ghosts are real or just continue writing about it?

 

**can be read as a standalone!

 

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Josie Malone lives and works at her family business, a riding stable in Washington State. Teaching kids to ride and know about horses, she finds in many cases, she’s taught three generations of families. Her life experiences span adventures from dealing cards in a casino, attending graduate school to get her Masters in Teaching degree, being a substitute teacher, and serving in the Army Reserve – all leading to her second career as a published author. Visit her at her website, http://www.josiemalone.com to learn about her books.

  

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Erica rolled her eyes and slipped her hand out of his grasp. “Those lines are so old, Dominic. If you think saying all the right things is going to make me change my mind, you’re wrong.”

As if he had been physically slapped in the face, Dominic staggered. “Lines? Is that what you think this is? Like I’m just playing you?”

“Aren’t you?” she sneered. “Isn’t that what guys like you do? Say all those pretty things like ‘I read in my spare time’ and ‘It’s such a burden to be needed’ and all that bullshit. Then, when you have the girl, you dump her for the newest thing that comes along. You’re only interested because I’m something new in town, right? Someone new to win over.”

His mouth hung open. “Why would you—”

Then he stopped. He was going to ask why she would believe something so heinous, so stereotypical and cynical. Then he remembered what she had told him last night. She never grew up with a father, and if he could take a wild guess, he would have said that her mother planted those ideas in her head. No man could be trusted. A woman should rely on herself and no one else. Erica’s entire childhood would have been one jaded, dysfunctional mess, and this was the kind of baggage she carried into adulthood.

The mating bond was there and he knew everything out of her mouth was forced. She might have believed what she said, but her heart wasn’t in her accusations. Below the anger, below those hateful words, Erica really didn’t want this to end. The mating bond told him that much, otherwise, this thing between them would have unraveled already, wouldn’t it?

Too dumbfounded, he just stared into her beautiful face, the one that was on the verge of bursting into fresh tears. Her pride denied her the release. He would have loved for her to come apart in his hands, just so he could have the privilege of comforting her when she needed it most and put the pieces back together the right way.

“What can I do to make you believe me?”

Erica looked away, and he saw her throat work. “I don’t know if there is anything you could say.”

Just then, his pocket buzzed and chimed, and he was ready to smash the damned cellphone.

“Go ahead,” she said as she marched away. “Go play hero for someone else.”

Sheritta Bitikofer writes paranormal romance with a particular fondness for wolf shifters and witches. Her stories are driven by one guiding belief: love inspires courage. Through fierce romances, unbreakable pack bonds, and the magic of covens and family, her characters fight for the lives—and loves—they deserve. Sheritta lives in northwest Florida, where she drinks far too much coffee and joyfully balances life as a wife and mother while crafting her next heartfelt paranormal love story.

When she’s not writing her next novel or taking care of her daughter, Sheritta enjoys diving into the fascinating and complex history of the American Civil War. With a BA in American History from American Public University, her primary focus of study is the many human-interest stories that embody the spirit of the mid-nineteenth century. 

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An excerpt of “Death of Angst” from WAVES OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS: STORIES

“When my eyes have the ember slits of a viper, some humans think I must be plotting death and murder. Although it happens, out of necessity, most of the time I am merely researching, scrutinizing, and processing feline perfection, because I was found as an orphan under a box. I know now that I must have been in severe pain from having survived an attack by a thug, a ruffian tomcat that wanted to breed with my mother. I remember the sharp claws digging into my fur, the putrid breath hot on my neck. So, no wonder I am skittish; it just does not leave you. The trauma, I mean. My brothers and sisters, dead and gone. More to the point, leaving me with no one to learn from . . . to emulate.

I was certainly lucky to be found by Adele Petrini outside the building where I now live on the third floor. I think Adele was around five years old back then. Human years, I’m talking about. Just a tiny, muddy thing, with messy braids and curious eyes. She wanted to name me Anxiety, but it got shortened to Angst. I don’t mind; I am certainly happy with the name. I find it important that it’s easy for humans to call my name when it’s time to eat.”

John Danenbarger spends much of his time writing in Italy. Born in Atlanta, he graduated from University of Kansas with a degree in English and Creative Writing. With a backlist of short stories, Danenbarger established the Salem Massachusetts Writers’ Club. After living in Oslo, Norway, Stockholm, Sweden, and Salem, MA, Danenbarger achieved a merchant marine captain’s license, sailing for two years on the New England coast including two round-trips to Bermuda.

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Prologue:

Present Day

The moon hung quietly above Helldreth Fort, its pale glow spilling through the tall windows and brushing the chamber with soft silver. A cool breeze drifted in and stirred the white curtains, their edges sweeping lightly across Everin’s skin. She pulled her silk gown closer, grateful for the warmth of the room. It felt comforting, far more so than the terrible, dark place she had left behind.

Her steps carried her to the mirror in the corner. The reflection staring back looked thinner, as if her body had been carved down to something she hardly recognized.

The neckline of her nightie dipped too low to her liking, drawing her eye to the faint scars across her chest. The lamp light traced their uneven lines, pale and unsettling.

She touched them gently. Everin barely remembered how or when she got the scars.

She pulled the outer robe around her until it covered more of her chest. At least the scars were low enough to stay hidden unless she wore something too revealing.

A sound of footsteps behind her made her turn.

Tariel Fenwick, her first love, stood at the doorway.

Everin froze for a moment. He looked different—stronger, more defined, more man than the boy she remembered. His dark hair rested just above his shoulders with two thin braids at the

sides of his head, framing a face sharpened by a faint stubble. His amber eyes, once so warm, now carried a deeper, shadowed intensity. His shirt hung open across his chest, revealing sculpted muscle that rose with each slow breath, and a leather gauntlet, more like an open finger glove, hugged his left hand like a seamless extension of his skin.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. He saw that. A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips.

She straightened quickly. “We need to talk, Tariel.”

“Yes,” he replied, approaching her, “but not now.”

“There is a lot I want to understand,” she said quietly. “So much I don’t remember.”

“Later.” He reached her, lowering his voice. “I’ve long waited for this moment with you.”

He stepped closer.

She stepped back.

“You waited for me?” she whispered, searching his face.

“I did,” he said. “More than you know.”

He brushed a fingertip along her arm. She stiffened but felt a flicker of the old pull toward him, a warm memory trying to surface. Her eyes drifted briefly to his lips, those that she had kissed in the past, before she forced herself to look away.

His smirk deepened. “Are we shy now, Everin?” he murmured, amusement warm in his voice.

“It has been a while,” she managed. “Things are not the same.”

“We are,” he said, touching her jaw. “You still feel this.”

She backed away again, but he followed, closing in until she had no space left. Her leg hit the edge of the bed. She lost her balance and stumbled, falling backward onto the soft covers. Instantly, she pressed her elbow into the mattress as she tried to push herself upright and pull her short nightie into place, but she barely had a second.

By the time she braced herself, Tariel was already on the bed. One knee pressed into the mattress, and in a swift movement, he trapped her between his legs. His body loomed over hers, leaving her nowhere to go. His hand slid behind her back and pulled her closer. The other moved to her neck, his fingers settling at her pulse, firm enough to hold her from looking

away.

His control was precise and deliberate.

“Tariel—” She sucked in a breath, fear slipping into her voice. “What are you doing?”

His lips hovered above hers, so close she could taste the hint of warmth in each breath he released.

“You belong to me,” he whispered, his voice shifting, deepening, curling around her like smoke. His eyes burned brighter, molten gold spilling across the darkness of his gaze. “You always have.”

Everin’s heart thrashed in her chest. Something ancient stared back at her through his eyes—something demanding, something claiming.

She tried to pull away. “You’re frightening me.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of her jaw. “You love me,” he whispered.

“You always have. And you will give yourself to me again.”

His mouth dragged slowly toward hers, teasing, commanding, his breath warm against her parted lips.

“I want you,” he said, low and certain. “I want all of you.”

“No.” Everin gasped, turning her head away as panic surged.

“Stop. You’re not—”

His fingers tightened at her neck.

He didn’t stop. The Tariel she loved would have.

“I am yours,” he murmured.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Then her voice broke in a whisper— “You’re not him. You’re not Tariel.”

The room fell silent. And everything inside her knew she was right.

The Flames of Darkness

Hell’s Fire Dragon Series Book 1

Harry Potter meets Fourth Wing in this clean, dual-POV teen Romantasy, where first love collides with dragons, prophecy, and a secret that could end the world.

A hidden power. A dreaded prophecy.
When Everin Haydon discovers she’s a dragon, she’s immediately summoned to Drakon Academy, only to learn she’s a late bloomer, unable to shapeshift, and under the Council’s watchful eye.

Her only solace is Tariel Fenwick, a fellow late bloomer. Mocked for their struggles, they find strength in each other, and a first love begins to bloom.

But whispers of the Hell’s Fire Dragon, the Feared One, destined to awaken the Demon of Chaos, loom over them.
Will their fragile love survive when the evil they fear may live inside the person they love?

 

**Get it FREE!!**

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La Kayshal is an Australian writer of romance, YA, and children’s fantasy novels. She lives with her husband, daughter, and a playful Malshi puppy in the coastal plains of the Sunny State.

 Her debut novel, The Lost Crown, is an adventure romance set in the exotic landscapes of India. She also created the much-loved Sylph Series, a whimsical children’s collection that introduces readers to the amazing world of Sylphs, with each book carrying a gentle moral lesson.

 A lifelong fan of wizards, magic, dragons, swords, and elementals, she poured all these passions into her YA fantasy Ariston Baker in the Weird Picture Book, a fast-paced journey filled with realms, riddles, action, and adventure.

 Her latest project is the Hell’s Fire Dragon duology, a romantasy series filled with dragons, magic, and high-stakes conflict. Book 1, The Flames of Darkness, begins the story, followed by Book 2, The Flames of Soulflare.

 

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So, at age 51, after a long career in journalism and public-relations, she quit her day job and went to work. After seven years, countless rewrites, and a seat-of-her-pants course in modern publishing, she released her debut novel, The Leaving Year, with SparkPress Aug. 14, 2018.

Set in the beautiful Pacific Northwest where she grew up, The Leaving Year, is a coming-of-age story about love and loyalty, family and friendship, and the stories we tell ourselves in our search for meaning.

For her second novel, Shade of Wings, she looked to New York City to tell the story of the West Nile virus outbreak from the point-of-view of the first US victims – American crows. She hopes readers fall in love her hapless hero, Duncan, and his plucky crow family. She certainly loved giving them life.

Before tackling novels, Pam wrote short stories and articles. Her short fiction has appeared in the online literary journals, Eclectica and Amarillo Bay, and her articles have been published in many Puget Sound-area publications and websites, including The Daily Herald (in Everett, WA), Bicycle Paper, the MS Connection newsletter, and Seattle Children’s Story Project.

She has a BA degree in Communications Journalism from the University of Washington and certificates in fiction writing and advanced literary fiction from UW Extension.

When she isn’t writing or thinking about writing, she likes to read, walk the dog, swim, bike, garden, and watch birds.

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PROLOGUE

—————-

COLORADO ROCKIES

April 17, Tuesday

4:17 p.m.

Breathtaking drops along the road that rimmed Colorado’s Dead Horse Canyon terrified Sara Reynolds from the start. Cliffs and gorges stretched on and off for miles, few protected by guardrails.

“Too expensive,” Bryan explained. “Not a priority for lean county budgets.”

His advice for dealing with roadway-induced acrophobia was simple:

“Keep your eyes on the center line. Concentrate on the road. Whatever you do, never, ever look down!”

His words sprang from memory, recommendations moot. Ignoring the threat didn’t make it go away. Especially when someone T-boned your truck on a blind curve.

Their mangled Silverado teetered on a ledge twenty feet below. She stared, incredulous, as steam twisted upward from its crumpled hood in a sultry, hypnotic dance. Vapors crawled along the shattered windshield, then teased the heart-shaped leaves of a young quaking aspen—the truck’s only ally against a sheer drop of several hundred feet.

The realization she’d been the truck’s passenger only moments before sizzled through her like lightning. Why was she weightless, brunette tendrils floating about her shoulders like a storm cloud? Her horrified gaze shifted to her husband, likewise weightless and wearing his signature crooked grin.

“What happened?” Her words were soundless, thought rather than speech.

“We’re dead.”

“What? Dead? What do you mean we’re dead?”

He pointed to their truck. She gasped. Their lifeless bodies were clearly visible through the cab’s passenger side window.

He was right—they were dead.

The tender expression in his hazel eyes embraced her heart as affection flowed between them. An unexpected sense of peace  defied what lay below. Time froze, the forest hushed and serene as a leafy chorus offered a requiem in the spring breeze.

What seemed an eternity later, sirens screamed through the canyon. His demeanor shifted.

“I’m sorry, Sara. That didn’t exactly work out as planned. I know—I should have listened to you. I love you, sweetheart.”

Renewed panic surged. “What are you saying, Bryan?”

“You must go back. Promise me. Don’t let them get away with this. Please.”

He blew her a kiss, then his personage retreated, fading into a swirling vortex of unearthly light.

“No! Wait. Don’t leave me! Bryan, please. Don’t go!”

He didn’t stop, her plea denied, his only response a wave of farewell as he vanished into the light.

* * *

She awoke to mind-numbing pain. Her shoulder, neck, and hip screamed, spasms twisting every muscle as if some wild beast had torn them apart. There’d been an ear-splitting crash, a brilliant flash of light. . .

Where was Bryan? Where was she?

Unless someone knew otherwise, surely it was hell.

Somewhere far away a muffled siren wailed. Fear of the truth conspired with her blood-crusted lashes not to open her eyes. Pain vetoed the refusal. Her eyelids trembled open.

A sandy haired, broad-shouldered man in a blue EMS uniform sat beside her, attention fixed on a beeping vital signs monitor. A metallic taste filled her mouth, lips swollen and heavy, her attempt to speak a scratchy whisper.

“What. . .happened? Wh-where’s Bryan? Is he h-here?”

The man turned her way, regarding her with dark, concerned eyes.

“It’s okay, ma’am. Don’t try to talk.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re getting you to help as fast as we can.”

Her breathing quickened, ravaged muscles and nerves on fire, but the agony consuming her heart eclipsed it all. A sob caught in her throat, words an articulated whimper.

“H-he left me. Here….”

“Just relax.” He emptied a syringe into the port of the IV line embedded in her arm.

The pain ebbed. Again nothing. Only darkness.

* * *

BELTON REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER

April 17, Tuesday

5:37 p.m.

The sensation of motion breached the persistent fog. Her eyes cracked open as the gurney rumbled through a portal into blinding light. Electronic chirping, then muted voices, the smell of antiseptics.

She forced her query out from somewhere in her chest. “W-what h-happened?”

The pretty black nurse hanging a unit of blood looked her way. “You were in a bad wreck, darlin’. Just rest now. You’re in good hands. You’re awake and that’s a really good sign.”

“But my husband—”

“I know, darlin’. Don’t worry about him. He’s in a better place.” Tears flowed unbidden. It had to be a nightmare. Willing herself awake, however, failed. Abandonment and confusion in the grip of agonizing pain remained.

Return to Dead Horse Canyon: Grandfather Spirits

Dead Horse Canyon Saga Book 2

THE DEAD HORSE CANYON SAGA CONTINUES. . .

READERS’ FAVORITE 5-STAR REVIEW

“I went into ‘Return to Dead Horse Canyon’ not having read the first book and while it does read comfortably as a stand-alone, after just a couple of chapters I actually went back to read ‘The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon’ before restarting book two. It was an excellent decision. The building of the Cheyenne history is critical to the story and had I not understood Sara’s complete motivation and Charlie’s fully fleshed-out roots, I’d have missed out on so much more than just a good read. My gosh, the depth of ethnology packed into both novels is meticulously researched and beautifully detailed. Co-authors Marcha Fox and Pete Risingsun are a dream team with this saga and I’m really looking forward to the third and final installment of their trilogy.” — Asher Syed


This epic modern Native American saga continues in this sequel to “The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon” where Charlie Littlewolf and Sara Reynolds discovered why her husband, Bryan, was murdered, changing their lives forever. While Charlie swore to avenge his white brother’s death, the path to do so remains unclear.

His job with Lone Star Operations allows him to use his college education and earn a generous income. However, it conflicts with everything he knows to be right, especially as he returns to the teachings of his medicine man grandfather. Is violating the Earth wrong or not? Little does he realize that his work will ultimately return him to the Northern Cheyenne reservation where his true destiny will manifest in ways he never imagined.

Sara is determined to fulfill Bryan’s last request to expose the government corruption coupled with the lethal forces that stole his life. Releasing the scandalous Top Secret data via WikiLeaks infuriates those with much to lose, who place a high price on her demise. When her response gets too personal, the next attempt to silence her forever comes close to home.

While miles apart, each struggles with life-threatening situations as a result of their dedication to Bryan’s legacy. Their lives remain entangled through a series of fateful decisions and circumstances that define a future fraught with dangerous unknowns for them both.

AWARDS

Pinnacle Book Achievement Award
Firebird Book Award
Book Excellence Award Finalist
5-star Readers’ Favorite Review
Page Turner Award Finalist

 

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The Revenge of Dead Horse Canyon: Sweet Medicine Spirits

Dead Horse Canyon Saga Book 3

The DEAD HORSE CANYON Trilogy’s explosive conclusion!

Picking up where “Return to Dead Horse Canyon: Grandfather Spirits” left off, we find that much to her enemy’s dismay, Sara’s life is spared, but with a steep price. A million dollar bounty remains on her demise, motivating another to threaten her life. Paralyzed by the last attempt to eliminate her, her Native American friend, Charlie, promises to help restore her health so she can walk again. Before he can accomplish that, however, the unthinkable happens, which disrupts and redirects their plans.

To fulfill his promise to his Northern Cheyenne Grandfather to complete a four-day ceremonial fast at the Sacred Mountain, Charlie journeys to Bear Butte in South Dakota, known to his tribe as Novavose. A series of startling visions reveal the full scope of his destiny. Of prime importance is to restore the ancient Earth Giving Ceremony known as the Massaum, originally revealed thousands of years before by their prophet, Sweet Medicine.

Has the time come at last for Native People to unite and fulfill Black Cloud’s curse on Dead Horse Canyon? And what about those other 19th century prophecies directed to the 7th Generation by Black Elk and Crazy Horse?

Phase I of the PURF complex is complete. A gala open house to celebrate is scheduled around the same time as the Gathering of Indigenous Leaders. While the underground facility is filled to the brim with corrupt lobbyists, contractors, and government officials, not far away a host of First Nation Americans is entrenched in a ceremony that promises to restore them to their land.

What could possibly go wrong?

5-STAR EDITORIAL REVIEW FROM READERS’ FAVORITE

“The Revenge of Dead Horse Canyon by Marcha Fox and Pete Risingsun stands out for its sharp writing and complete ability to immerse readers, especially in Charlie’s spiritual transformation. Poor Sara just cannot get a break. Attacked, paralyzed, kidnapped, and then labeled a domestic terrorist and sanctioned! This isn’t just a fight for survival; this is about the power of truth in the face of overwhelming opposition. Charlie fits into this description, with a spectacular ceremony for Sara’s healing, but also as a powerful catalyst when he is in the presence of Grandmother Earth and the consequences of his actions. Fox and Risingsun are a dream writing team in every way, and, culturally, this portrayal of Charlie’s heritage is painted from the sky to the smallest pebble and the fire burning in between. The pacing is elevated by point of view shifts and all the drama, but also a surprising relationship transformation as well. Ultimately, this finale succeeds with a perfect 10 landing. Very, very highly recommended.”

AWARDS

Reader’s Favorite 5-stars
Book Excellence Award
Pinnacle Achievement Award

 

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** Get the trilogy box set! **

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A sweetgrass braid ordered in 2019 connected a NASA physicist in Texas with a Cheyenne elder living on the Northern Cheyenne reservation in Montana. That relationship evolved from a transaction to a consultation to a co-authorship that produced a culturally meticulous, spiritually grounded, award-winning conspiracy thriller trilogy.

Before publishing “The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon” Marcha wanted to confirm her portrayal of Native American culture and the story’s protagonist, Charlie Littlewolf, was accurate as well as respectful toward indigenous people.

Synchronicity intervened via that sweetgrass braid and connected her with Pete Risingsun, an enrolled member and elder in the Northern Cheyenne tribe. He offered insights and changes, but best of all, was so taken with the story he ultimately became its coauthor.

Marcha’s experience as a retired NASA engineer and seasoned author of The Star Trails Tetralogy science fiction series, melded perfectly with Pete’s knowledge of his tribe’s history and ceremonies.

The pair, who has never met face to face, collaborated via phone calls, text messages, and snail mail between her home in the Texas Hill Country and his on the reservation in Montana.

It took five years to produce the trilogy that comprises “The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon Saga,” the three books of which have collected a total of 13 awards.

In preparation for writing the saga’s explosive conclusion, Marcha and Pete conducted extensive research. In so doing, they were delighted to uncover fascinating details of Norther Cheyenne history and ceremonies that dove-tailed perfectly with the complex story’s plot, tying it back to numerous events in the 19th Century.

 

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Libby Kay lives in the city in the heart of the Midwest with her husband. When she’s not writing, Libby loves reading romance novels of any kind. Stories of people falling in love nourish her soul. Contemporary or Regency, sweet or hot, as long as there is a happily ever after—she’s in love!

When not surrounded by books, Libby can be found baking in her kitchen, binging true crime shows, or on the road with her husband, traveling as far as their bank account will allow.

Libby cohosts the Romance Roundup podcast with Liz Donatelli where they recommend romance books and interview authors, influencers, and publishers. Check it out for your weekly dose of romance!

 

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Arabella in another man’s arms unsettled him more than Amelia’s wedding. How could that be? He’d once believed his heart belonged to Amelia. But she’d married Devonhold, and instead of breaking him, it had brought anger and now… relief. That was the truth, wasn’t it? A quiet, undeniable sense of rightness had settled over him then, but now a storm raged at the idea of losing Arabella. It wasn’t just an obligation that pulled him toward her. It was the realization that he may have loved her all along.

A flash of light blue caught his eye when she sailed through the doorway, mercifully alone. She looked thin. Perhaps she wasn’t well.

Arabella crossed her arms. “I heard you abused Charlotte’s feet last night, so I think not.”

“A turn in the garden, then.”

“That wouldn’t be proper.”

Arabella darted down the hall, opened a door at the end, and entered a room.

 stopped with his hand on the handle.

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Tina Holland was born in Frankfurt, Germany, and now calls the Red River Valley of North Dakota home. Living on a hobby farm, she draws inspiration from wide prairie skies, quiet country roads, and the rich history that often finds its way into her stories.

Published since 2005, Tina writes character-driven fiction filled with heart, tension, and emotional depth. Her Regency romances, including How to Marry a Major and her newest release, How to Love a Lord, blend wit, longing, and resilience in tales of bold heroines and honorable heroes. She also writes paranormal and cozy mysteries under the pen name Kaye Maxx.

In addition to writing, Tina is an engaging speaker and workshop instructor. She teaches her F.E.A.R.S. workshop (available online or in person) and enjoys connecting with readers through libraries, book clubs, signings, and virtual events. She is a member of Writer Zen Garden, Moorhead Friends Writing Group, and F-M Word Weavers.

Press kits, review copies, and promotional materials are available upon request.

For booking inquiries, interviews, or events, please contact:
krissyg@rrt.net

 

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In this scene, a quiet Christmas moment between Jake and Emma becomes something more—a gift, a memory, and an unspoken fear of what’s to come.

When Jake and I step out onto Fifth Avenue, the cold whips through our bulky coats. The air has that expectant heaviness that feels as if it will snow at any moment. We hurry home and make hot chocolate. My boxes of cookies are hidden away, ready for tomorrow.

“I have something for you,” I say shyly as we sit in the living room, sipping our hot chocolate. “I don’t want to give it to you at your parents’. Do you want it now or tomorrow morning?”

Jake looks up from his mug; he has a chocolate mustache. “Now, please,” he blurts.

I go into Vee’s room, where I hid Jake’s present, and pull it out from under her bed. I carry it back to the couch and hand him the wrapped gift, and he grins, “I love surprises.”

He tears open the wrapping, revealing the framed collage inside. There is a Snowy Owl in the center and then in seven smaller pictures around the edge: there is a yellow-rumped warbler, a palm warbler, a northern cardinal, a white-throated sparrow, a black-capped chickadee and a dark-eyed junco. The last one is a lovely wood thrush to commemorate the job he got me.

“These are the birds we’ve seen when we were together in the park, not the actual picture as I don’t have a camera, but pictures of the birds plus, of course, the wood thrush,” I babble. “I know you hate John Foster, but you seem to like birds, and I thought this could be something for you to remember me by―you know, for when this whole thing is over.” I wave my hands nervously then clasp them at my chest, waiting.

Jake tilts his head and replies, “I love it. You are right. I do like seeing birds with you.” His expression shifts. “But let’s not talk about this whole thing being over. That will just make me sad.”

My heart swells, “Deal.”

We sit sipping our cocoa and talk about each of the birds. I made myself the exact same collage, something to brighten my room when I’m back at my parents’, alone again. I’ll remember each bird sighting. This moment, too. I’m already storing it away, something to take out and examine when the days grow long.

Continue the story in When the Forest Dreams

After spending three decades in the insurance industry, Andrea Ezerins traded risk assessments for plot twists. Andrea lives in Hebron, Connecticut, with her husband and is the proud mom of two daughters and identical twin sons. When she’s not writing, she’s raising bluebirds and monarch butterflies, running, or flowing through yoga—often while plotting her next book.

 

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“Have you ever seen her in a class?”

What was he getting at? “We don’t have any classes together. But I don’t have any classes with you either.”

“Okay, so how about the fact that she was cold as ice when I touched her shoulder?”

The chills she’d sensed from June had felt like relief in the blazing sun, but she had noticed them. “What are you saying?”

Reid pulled her underneath a yellowing oak in an empty yard. Ignoring her look of annoyance, he glanced over his shoulders before whispering low and close to her ear. “Did you know Pinedale High is haunted?”

First the woods and now the whole school? May stepped back, hands up in feigned surrender. “Okay-okay, I get it. Prank the new kid. You know, I’m sorry I even thought about checking in on you. I don’t have time for this.” She about-faced and strode down the sidewalk without him.

“Wait, what? I’m not pranking you.” He caught up in only a few strides, his long legs veering her off to the side. “Please, hear me out.”

May’s mind flipped through any example of a high school boy wanting her to hear him out. This had to be a trick. “No, you listen to me. I’ve been the new girl far too many times than I care to count. And I get it. I’m easy prey…perhaps even a challenge.” She thumped him in his too-close-to-her chest. “But I’m not playing.”

“I think June’s a ghost. I’m not kidding or pranking you. And I need you to listen.”

Flashes of her strange interactions with her new friend…if she could even call her that…flickered through May’s mind. They’d only known each other for a couple of days, but she had sensed something off.

She turned away from him, trying to put everything together. Bouts of June’s chilliness, yes. But earlier, it had been strange how fast she’d flown down the spectator stands. Before that, she struggled to push open the main school doors.

May had attributed June’s glossy hollow eyes to the lighting, but maybe it was because of something else. She closed her own eyes for clarity, kicking her foot into the grass. Maybe allergies?

She tucked her hair behind her ear, running the strands between her fingers as more details registered. June’s peculiar way of speaking was odd, and her clothes that first day, like a blast from the past. She was still wearing her penny loafers…with pennies inside.

May dropped her backpack, shook her head at Reid, who was waiting for her to process. But her brain wasn’t cooperating. “Ghosts?” The word spat off her tongue like she’d swallowed a flick of her cat’s tail.

“I know I sound insane. I’m not. I promise.” He glimpsed her with creamy brown eyes. They were the color of Great-Grandma’s sweet tea, and she was overheating inside and out, ready for a tall glass.

“Is this why you’ve been crying at the pond during lunch?”

“What?” His face scrunched, cheeks burning past the eighty-degree temperature outside to a brighter shade of full-blown embarrassment. “No. I mean—I’m not crying at the pond. What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

They stood at an impasse, shock etching along both their eyebrows and drawn lips. Her mind raced for something to say, and if she had to guess, he was in the same boat.

Don’t miss the rest of the Haunting of Pinedale High books!

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Celaine Charles lives in the enchanted Pacific Northwest, teaching elementary school by day and writing by the stars at night. She’s an award-winning, multi-genre author who balances her dual life creating poetry, fantasy, and contemporary romance shorts, while blogging about her journey on Steps in Between. In addition, she’s embarking on the world of children’s picture books.

She’s published collections of poetry through Egret Lake Books and Palmetto Publishing Group, and fiction through The Wild Rose Press and Eliza Storm Books.

Celaine is a member of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Storyteller Academy, Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and reads poetry regularly with the Museum of Northwest Art, Writing’s on the Wall series.

 

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What readers are saying:

A Hundred Black Sunrises is a haunting and emotionally charged horror short that blends reincarnation, cursed love, and inevitable tragedy. The story follows Sienna and Finn, two souls drawn together across lifetimes, only to face the same dark fate again and again. What begins as an intriguing connection quickly spirals into something far more sinister, as the truth behind their bond unravels. Though short, the narrative delivers a powerful mix of supernatural horror and tragic romance.

 – Alicia Dean, Goodreads Reviewer

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A loud cracking sounded across the room and a huge, sil- ver gilded mirror fractured in half, splitting apart their reflec- tions. Elijah grabbed her hand and spoke softly. “Let me get you away from here, Poppy.”

As they moved toward the dining room entrance, one of the kit- chen servants appeared. Her brown eyes widened and then narrowed at the scene laid out before her. She hastily wiped her hands on her white apron and latched onto Poppy’s other hand.

“Run far, far away from this cursed place. Take nothing with you. His evil was contained while he was alive, but his death means…” she trailed off and shrugged her shoulders.

“What…what did he mean by “a hundred black sunrises?” Poppy asked in a tremulous voice.

 The servant smiled sadly. “Nothing good, you can believe that.” She gestured towards the hallway leading to the front door as a dozen other servants from the kitchen suddenly crowded around them. “Now, go! Take her and go!”

Elijah needed no further encouragement and pulled a dazed Poppy down the hallway, already filled with black smoke. As he opened the heavy door, she looked back one last time to say goodbye to every- thing she had ever known, and her gaze lit on Christianpaul’s smiling portrait of himself as a much younger man. She shivered as Elijah led her out the front door and she clutched his arm fearfully. Poppy knew every brushstroke of that painting and never in her life had the bastard worn a smile in it.

Tamela Miles is a California State University San Bernardino graduate student with a Bachelor of Science degree in Child Development and a former flight attendant. She grew up in Altadena, California in that tumultuous time known as the 1980s. She now resides with her family in the Inland Empire, CA. She’s a horror/paranormal romance writer mainly because it feels so good having her characters do bad things and, later, pondering what makes them so bad and why they can never seem to change their wicked ways.

She enjoys emails from people who like her work. In fact, she loves emails. She can be contacted at tamelamiles@yahoo.com or her Facebook page, Tamela Miles Books. She also welcomes reader reviews and enjoys the feedback from people who love to read as much as she does.

 

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***** “Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure.” — C. Brown, Locus Magazine

***** “The amazing and exotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow’s universe.” — Frederik Pohl

***** “The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is in Janet Morris’ Silistra series: High Couch of Silistra (originally entitled Returning Creation), The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne.” — Anne K. Kaler, “The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.”

“[…] today I thought I’d look at one of the most successful fantasy debuts of all time, a series that became a huge international hit with its first release, launching the career of one of the most prolific fantasy writers of the late 20th Century: Janet Morris’ The Silistra Quartet.

“The Silistra Quartet began with Janet’s first novel, High Couch of Silistra […] from Bantam Books in 1977 [, ] the far-future tale of the colony planet of Silistra, still recovering from an ancient war that left the planet scarred and much of the population infertile. With a dangerously low birth-rate, it’s not long before the human colonists of Silistra develop a new social order, with a hierarchy based on fertility and sexual prowess.
— John O’Neill in Black Gate Adventures in Fantasy Literature

Estri was a god, and the daughter of light.
Chayin was a god, and the son of darkness.
Sereth was hase-enor, the son of all flesh.
Lovers and friends, could they be the prophesied three
who would wield the Sword of Severance, Se’Keroth,
and bring light out of dark?

“One from the east, born of ease and destined,
“One from north of south, divine, exempt of question;
the third from out the west,
Astride a tide of death,” quoted Chayin. He was not
smiling. It is a long epic. All has been foreseen. We
all know that tale’s end.”
— Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, in “Wind from the Abyss.”

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“Gate!” he bellowed over the storm, his dripping lips at my ear. The deluge had made us sparing of words. Under leathers soaked to thrice their weight, I shivered in spasms. Arms clutched to my sides, I stared into the rain. The driven sheets slashed me for my audacity. Lightning flared, illuminating the riverbank white. A moment later, the bright noise cracked through my head. The hillock trembled.

Over the gate danced the lightning. Its crackling fingers quested down thick-crossed slabs of iron, seared flesh. Emblazoned as they tumbled were those six-legged amphibians, their streamered tails lashing, scaled, fangful heads thrown back in dismay. I saw their afterimage: beryl and cinnabar, aglow upon the storm. Then their charred remains splashed into oblivion, spun away on the fast current.

“Down!” One man shouted, the other shoved me, and as I staggered to kneel in the sedges, the god that washed this land shook it, grumbling. I crouched on my hands and knees on the bucking sod, between them. Little protection could they offer up against shaking earth and searing sky, not even for themselves, without divorcing themselves from the reality they had come here to explore. And that they would not do.

Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

 

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris’ classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman’s quest for self-realization in a distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler …. She is descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods themselves.

 

Praise for Janet Morris’ Silistra Quartet:

“The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow’s universe.” — Fred Pohl

“Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure.” — Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

“The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris’ Silistra series.” — Anne K. Kahler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

 

This Perseid Press Author’s Cut Edition is revised and expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and covers designed for these premium editions.

 

Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .

 

“Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface, though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the events described by “Khys’ Estri” (as I have come to think of the shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not be withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estri because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression of Khys’ humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences, my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea, then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys’ puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing retribution at the dharen’s hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper’s city — and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed: siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum, whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the dharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . .”

  

“Morris, so good at giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate, strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity — both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosen to enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving us access to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose stories she is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” science fiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how they can be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adult novel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in the universe, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer

 

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The Golden Sword

The Silistra Quartet Book 2

Dystopia. Biology shapes reality. The further adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in the galaxies of tomorrow.

She had the power to create planets. The sixty carved bones of the Yris-tera foretold her ancient fate. Her heritage of power took her beyond time and space and stole from her the one man she loved.

Enslaved on the planet Silistra, tomorrow’s most beautiful courtesan unleashes the powers of the gods.

 

What readers are saying:

 

“Pure excellence…. A heroic quest of the highest calibre.” – Goodreads

 

“This is a book which makes one’s blood sing and one’s mind ponder. I loved the first in the series and enjoyed this as much, perhaps more. The ending leaves the reader desperate to know what happens to Estri next – courtesan, slave, warrior, lover, rebel. What is next for our heroine?” – Goodreads

 

“Call it what you like: science fiction, space opera, sword and planet or erotic fantasy . . . The Golden Sword is all these things, and so much more. A highly intelligent and sensual novel filled with ideas and revelations, this is a gripping story that explores human sexuality and the role it plays in politics. Although the memorable characters are bisexual, toss away all your preconceived notions, for there is a humanity, a strength of will and determination, a realism and depth of emotion to these characters that will have you thinking twice about all you know and all you think you know. This is a book for mature and discerning readers who like some meat on the bones of the books they read. Janet Morris led the way for all the science fiction authors, both male and female, who came after. “ – Joe Bonadonna, Goodreads

 

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High Couch of Silistra

The Silistra Quartet Book 1

Biology shapes reality…

One woman’s mythic search for self-realization in a distant tomorrow…

Her sensuality was at the core of her world, her quest beyond the civilized stars.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler.

“Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure.” – Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine

“The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow’s universe” – Frederik Pohl

“The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris’ Silistra series… Estri’s character is most like that of Ishtar who describes herself as “‘a prostitute compassionate am I'” because she “symbolizes the creative submission to the demands of instinct, to the chaos of nature …the free woman, as opposed to the domesticated woman”. Linking Estri with these lunar and water symbols is not difficult because of the moon’s eternal virginity (the strength of integrity) links with her changeability (the prostitute’s switching of lovers). […]

Morris strengthens the moon imagery by having Estri as a well-keepress because wells, fountains, and the moon as the orb which controls water have long been associated with fertility, […] In a sense, she is like the moon because she is apparently eternal, never waxing or waning except in her pursuit of the quest; she is the prototypical wanderer like the moon and Ishtar. She is the eternal night symbol of the moon in opposition to the Day-Keepers […]

 At her majority (her three hundredth birthday), she is given a silver-cubed hologram letter from her mother, containing a videotape of her conception by the savage bronzed barbarian god from another world. […] If Estri’s mother then acts as a bawd, willing her lineage as Well-Keepress to her daughter, then Estri’s great-grandmother Astria as foundress of the Well becomes a further mother-bawd figure when she offers her prophetic advice in her letter: “Guard Astria for you may lose it, and more. Beware of one who is not as he seems. Stray not in the port city of Baniev …look well about you, for your father’s daughter’s brother seeks you”. Having no brother that she knows of does not stay Estri from undertaking the heroic quest of finding her father.”

 – Anne K. Kaler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine

 

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author’s Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet said: ‘People often ask what book to read first. I recommend “I, the Sun” if you like ancient history; “The Sacred Band,” a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; “Lawyers in Hell” if you like historical fantasy set in hell; “Outpassage” if you like hard science fiction; “High Couch of Silistra” if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author’s Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.’

 

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When a mega-quake buries Sacramento in toxic floodwaters, Erika Moore emerges from a bomb shelter—burned and alone, she’s desperate to find her husband and son. A country girl with a martial arts background, she fights to survive a lawless Sierra Nevada, battling gangs and saving a lost girl, Star. In a The Road-like wasteland with The Last of Us grit, every choice tests her: help others or herself? Desperate to reclaim her family, she presses on—until disaster strikes again. With raiders and waves rising, her reunion teeters on ruin. A post-apocalyptic tale of courage and chaos—will she outrun the next catastrophe?

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Jane stood there watching her go. Just as Sam closed the gate behind her, Jane heard Doug’s crew coming down the side of the mountain from the right-hand side.

Moving the gate was a slow process. It slammed with a bang as people flooded down the mountainside. There was no way to open it again in time to get Jaclyn safely inside before the attackers ascended upon them.

Jane screamed to Jaclyn, “Run, Jaclyn, run and hide! They’ll catch you!”

Jane was frantically pulling the gate open. Jaclyn started to run along the river’s edge, where the flowing water pulled back the mud and left less slippery stone. Thinking fast, Erika ran to Artaz. Star was already mounted, and Erika jumped up in front of her.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go!” Erika yelled while driving her legs into Artaz.

Artaz leaped forward. In a flash, they flew around the edge of the wall, splashing through the river. They hit the beach and galloped. The mud flew in the air as they pounded along the river bed. Then, she saw Jaclyn running in fear as fast as she could. Artaz was soaring now; his hoofs were clacking across the rock. Somehow, he found solid footing every time. Erika was a short distance from Jaclyn. They were going to make it. Then, all of a sudden, a truck came into her view from her left. The engine roared as the truck bound across the mud. They were closing in on Jaclyn! Erika realized she would never make it before the truck and pulled back hard on Artaz, causing him to come to a sliding stop.

As Artaz spun around on his heels to scamper back to the compound’s safety, Erika heard Star scream, “They have her.”

“There’s nothing we can do now except get out of here,” Erika shouted. She was out of her head to be running after Jaclyn. All that would come of it was her and Star getting captured as well. Then she heard the men from the truck shouting.

“There it is! The horse. That girl is riding it. Get it!” They quickly turned and started chasing Erika down, but before they could get their truck rolling through the deep muck, Erika was back around the wall, galloping toward the bridge.

Erika raced across the camp. They tied Jaclyn up like an animal in the back of the truck. The men were laughing at her and hitting her. She screamed in horror for someone to help her, but there would be no help. She would become another victim in a world that no longer had sympathy for the defenseless.

Erika could not help her now. Too much time was wasted already. The giant hooks were pulling on the walls. Some were starting to fall. She watched Sam and Jane retreat to the designated point for the final attack. The marauders were shooting guns and throwing spears at Jane and Sam. Jane and Sam were firing back, but their ammo was limited, and Erika knew it. Sam ran back to the cover point. Erika was forgotten in the fray. The bridge would be blown, and Erika was on the wrong side!

She dug her heels deep into Artaz. They galloped toward the bridge. She could see Jane getting ready to hit the switch, but in a second, Jane was standing there with a spear directly through her eye, and it was coming out the back of her head. Screaming for Jane, Sam shot the spear thrower dead in his tracks. Sam went to fire again, but the only sound was: click. . . click. He was out of bullets and the marauders were closing in. Erika jumped off a galloping Artaz and rolled over to the generator. Artaz hit the brakes quickly on the bridge when he felt Erika jump. Star instinctually moved up and gripped the reins. Yanking on one rein, Star wheeled back around toward Erika. A group of men were closing in. She hit the switch. As she looked back, she saw Artaz with Star at the reins.

Erika leaped up in front of Star, and they tore across the bridge that was blowing up almost underneath them. They turned to get Sam and saw a bullet rip through his chest. Debris rained down on them as the bridge and the men exploded.

Artaz was now in a wild gallop, completely panicked from the barrage of gunfire aimed at them. He barreled up the hill uncontrollably. Star suddenly clenched Erika tightly and screamed. Artaz shied violently, and it took all of Erika’s strength to stay seated in the saddle. He dodged left and right, fear fueling his wild scramble up the mountainside. He ran like never before. Halfway up the hill, he collapsed into a lifeless mass.

During the crash, Erika and Star were launched through the air. They were knocked unconscious. All that could be heard was the quiet of an unbelievable night. As Erika lay there somewhere between reality and unconsciousness, she told herself, this is all just a horrible nightmare, and I’m going to wake up. What is this life? 

**Currently getting made into a tv series!**

The Lost Vegas Years

The Changing Earth Series Book 1.5

In the wake of the Great Quake, Las Vegas lies in ruins, transformed into a federal refugee camp where survival is a daily struggle. Amidst the chaos and despair, Erika Moore fights to protect her family from the government’s iron rule. With her husband Vince by her side, they must navigate a world filled with danger and betrayal. As their defiance sparks whispers of Erika being the camp’s “Savior,” each act of resistance threatens to tear their family apart.

But Erika is not alone in her fight. Vince, the camp’s quiet hero, builds aquaponics gardens to feed the starving, a symbol of resilience in the face of oppression. As the government pushes for extreme measures and family adoption programs, Erika and Vince’s covert training and unwavering determination become their greatest weapons. From the ruins of Sacramento to the dusty streets of Vegas, their family’s bond is tested by loss, sacrifice, and a rising revolution that could destroy everything they hold dear.

For fans of post-apocalyptic thrillers like The Road and The Hunger Games, Back to the Lost Vegas Years is a heart-pounding journey into a world of survival, resistance, and unbreakable spirit. In the midst of a dystopian nightmare, one woman’s fire and one man’s roots may be the key to saving their family and sparking a revolution. Don’t miss this gripping installment in the Changing Earth series.

If you enjoyed The Road and The Hunger Games, you’ll love Back to the Lost Vegas Years.

 

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Without Land

The Changing Earth Series Book 2

Nine years trapped in a FEMA camp have crushed Erika Moore—once a legendary survivor, now a shadow haunted by a failed riot and iron-box torment. Her family—husband Vince and their kids—is her lifeline in a world of forced infertility and despair. A rescue squad gig offers escape, but betrayal and floods unravel her fragile hope. In a The Handmaid’s Tale-esque nightmare with The Last of Us’ brutal edge, Erika battles a tyrannical system to free her loved ones. Every step risks everything—submission or salvation. This post-apocalyptic clash of grit and defiance hooks like a dystopian thriller—can Erika shatter the walls? Dive into the next chapter of survival.

 

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The Walls of Freedom

The Changing Earth Series Book 3

Erika and Vince Moore lead their family north through a quake-scarred Sierra Nevada, nature reclaiming the ruins, fleeing feds and mercenaries for freedom. Hunted and frail, a drifting haven spares them starvation’s grasp—but storms and peril nearly claim young Daniel. In a Station Eleven-like world of fragile renewal and The 100’s fierce survival, Erika fights on as Vince teeters on death’s edge from brutal wounds. Her spirit snaps, marching toward doom to shield her own. Allies Bennet and Virgis offer refuge—until she’s summoned to a governing board to unveil a decade of horrors and a new quake looms. This post-apocalyptic tale of grit and sacrifice hooks like a rebel’s stand—will Erika break the chains? Dive deeper into the fight.

 

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Battle For the South

The Changing Earth Series Book 4

Erika and Vince Moore trek south to warn of a looming disaster, risking all to save her mom and friends in a crumbling Las Vegas. Hunted by feds and mercenaries, they rally with a Texas militia through hurricanes and heartbreak—until a vengeful shadow from Erika’s past strikes. In a The Passage-like sprawl of ruin and resolve, with Snowpiercer’s relentless fight, Erika battles storms and betrayal, her spirit forged in sacrifice as foes close in. Allies crumble, cities teeter, and a desperate stand looms. This post-apocalyptic epic of grit and loyalty grips like a survivor’s last cry—will Erika save her own against the next calamity? Dive into the battle’s fierce soul.

 

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Dark Days in Denver

The Changing Earth Series Book 5

Riding rebel victories, Erika Moore guides her family to a Denver homestead, a fleeting calm eclipsed by a brewing disaster. Hunted by feds and bounty hunters, her cover shatters amid betrayal and bloodshed—old bonds strain and new threats surge. In a Parable of the Sower-like weave of raw resilience, with The Walking Dead’s brutal chaos, Erika fights to safeguard her own as the West frays at the seams. A desperate clash for the city tests her soul, with ruin closing in. This post-apocalyptic epic of courage and survival grips like a rebel’s last breath—will Erika defy the dark days? Dive into the fray of loyalty and loss.

 

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The Endless Night

The Changing Earth Series Book 6

Bound in a bounty hunter’s den, Erika Moore grips a shred of defiance, her spirit bruised yet fierce. Hunted by feds and a merciless captor, she mourns her lost family—until echoes of their resistance stir her fight. In a The Road-like sprawl of stark desperation, with Swan Song’s epic struggle, Erika endures TJ’s mind-breaking torment, her will forged as he twists her soul. A storm churns outside, hinting at salvation. This post-apocalyptic tale of grit and redemption cuts like a survivor’s final plea—will Erika pierce the endless night? Dive into the tempest of loyalty and ruin.

 

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Hope On the Horizon

The Changing Earth Series Book 7

Arriving in Dallas, Erika Moore battles the mental scars TJ Swenson left behind, her mind grasping for clues of the past while facing the present. With Vince at her side, she claws toward recovery as a fractured resistance wavers—still haunted by TJ’s relentless glare. In a Station Eleven-like weave of fragile hope, with The Book of Eli’s unyielding resolve, Erika defies cravings to rally her people, her son Dexter rising to steady their cause. A northern refuge offers peace, but peril stalks their path. This post-apocalyptic tale of grit and renewal lifts like a survivor’s quiet cry—will Erika reclaim the horizon? Dive into a fight for family and light.

 

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The Bitter End

The Changing Earth Series Book 8

Erika Moore stands fierce in Pine Springs, a rebel leader hunted by TJ Swenson, a tyrant who claims her soul. With Vince and their son Dexter at her side, she guards a fragile west against an ice age and TJ’s iron grip. In a The Walking Dead-like clash of brutal stakes, with The Hunger Games defiant spirit, Erika strikes at TJ’s core, her family chasing secrets to shatter his reign. A last stand looms as ruin encroaches. This post-apocalyptic epic of grit and defiance roars like a survivor’s final cry—will Erika forge freedom from the bitter end? Dive into a saga of rebellion and resolve.

 

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Swenson

A Changing Earth Series Spinoff

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Virgis

A Changing Earth Origins Story

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Sara is an author, a fighter, a mother, and a wife. Her writings’ central philosophy is that anyone can be confident in any survival situation with the right skills and mental attitude. She wants people to learn through a fictional experience just how fragile our manufactured society is.

She practices these philosophies by training in various martial arts disciplines and homesteading with her family. Sara graduated from the California State University of Sacramento with a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration and published her first novel in 2014. She hosts self-defense seminars and avoiding abductions and sexual assaults.

Sara currently lives in the piney forest of east Texas. As a happily married woman with two boys, she delights in quality family time hiking and camping. Besides writing and fighting, she raises chickens, tends to her garden, and works as an insurance agent during the week.

 

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In 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, claimant prince to the unified thrones of England and Scotland, leads one final uprising to seize the crown for his father, James Edward Stuart. This is the third attempt by James’ followers, known as the Jacobites, to depose the ruling dynasty and restore the House of Stuart.

Though most Jacobites come from the Scottish Highlands, English, Scots, Welsh, and Irish alike fight for both sides, with few caring who occupies the throne. For many Scots, it is a clan war, a chance to settle centuries’ old scores. For others, it is a civil war, with red-jacketed soldiers compelled to fight their plaid wearing fathers, brothers, or sons on the opposing side.

“The ’45,” as it is referred, is a dark chapter from a merciless age. The fate of the burgeoning British Empire, and that of the Highland people, will be settled in a crucible of cannon, musket, bayonet, and broadsword, all wrought with ruthless fury. Many combatants and innocents alike shall grievously suffer in its wake, with only the faintest glints of humanity. This is their story.

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Though they could not yet see the enemy, the Recoat defenders could certainly hear them. In the faint glow of torch and starlight, they saw what looked to be a pair of barrels, overflowing with God knew what, being heaved against the sally port entrance.

“They’re going to try and burn the sodding door,” Lewis whispered with a disbelieving grin.

“I’ll sort that,” Molloy replied. “You give them a proper reception once they light the barrels.”

The sergeant then hastened along the western rampart until he found his lone sentry. He ordered the man to bring up water from the kitchen, as much as he could carry. He then raced across the courtyard and gave the same order to the other sentry before returning to the north wall.

Crouching low, he stared through one of the firing ports. He could see the shapes of men shuffling around the barrels, which as best he could tell were a couple of feet from the door. They scraped loudly across the gravel. To his left, Molloy saw the two privates returning with a pair of water buckets each. They hunkered low behind the parapet, near Corporal Lewis. The young NCO held his musket ready as he saw the sparks coming from the enemy’s flint and steel. A small fire soon started. It quickly grew, taking hold of some dry straw and kindling.

“Now,” the corporal said calmly as he shouldered his weapon.

As eight muskets unleashed a close range salvo, they could only clearly see the man who’d sparked the flames. The dense smoke clouded the vision of the Redcoats, who hastily began to reload. From his position, Sergeant Molloy could see the effects. The Jacobite visible in the burning light was struck at least three times, through the guts and neck. Doubling over, he pitched forward, nearly upsetting the other barrel. Molloy saw the shape of another man clutching at his shoulder before stumbling away.

The sounds of musketry from at least two score of enemy fighters flashed and echoed in the dark, peppering the ramparts.

“Easy, lads,” Molloy said. “They can’t hit a fucking thing so long as you use the firing ports, and only when ready to fire.”

At Corporal Lewis’ command, all but one of the Redcoats loosed another volley. This man complained about not being able to see a thing and thus stood to peer over the rampart.

“God damn it, Private Thomas!” Sergeant Molloy snapped. “Get your fucking head down—”

He was interrupted by an even more intense return of musket fire from their enemies. Most shots smacked harmlessly into the wall or sailed over the ramparts. One, however, struck the errant private in the head. He stood rigid for a moment before his convulsing body tumbled into the courtyard below.

“Tommy!” one of his mates cried out, starting to stand.

“Get back to your post!” Molloy snapped, rushing over to the young man at a low crouch and cuffing him across the head. “There’s nothing you can do for him. He’s dead because of his stupid negligence. Now keep your fucking head down and reload your damn firelock!”

As the barrels started to blaze, the two privates bearing water buckets upended these over the rampart, all the while keeping low behind the defences. Within seconds, the fire was completely extinguished and the Redcoats let out a cheer.

Molloy crept over to Corporal Lewis, who’d just finished reloading his musket.

“You have this situation under control,” the sergeant said. He nodded to the water bearers. “I’ll take these two and head for the south wall.”

In the distance, the Jacobite musketry continued, albeit in diminished numbers, with no coordination.

“They won’t be getting in this way,” Lewis confirmed before issuing the command for his men to fire once more.

He knew their chances of hitting their enemy in the dark were slim. Still, this gave his soldiers, especially the newest ones who’d only been with the army a few months, a chance to practice their musketry drills while under fire.

Sergeant Molloy ordered the water bearers to follow him, along with two more privates, before descending the steps and crossing over to the south rampart at a brisk walk. This left Corporal Lewis with five men to hold the rear entrance. Their enemy may have numbered in the hundreds, yet their one attempt at breaching the rear entrance had proven as pathetic as it was foolish.

The crack of musket shots came from the three men dispersed along the south rampart. Upon ascending the steps, Molloy could just make out an enemy combatant lying face down along the steep path leading into the fort.

“They’re trying to bring up a ladder, Sergeant,” one of the men explained. This was an older private in his late twenties, who Molloy trusted to keep his mates from shooting at mere shadows.

“Only one ladder,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head in amusement.

“What’s more, the path is too steep,” the private said. “They can’t even carry the damn thing up to the wall! And with the rain soaking the grassy slopes on the flanks, it’s too damned slippery. They won’t be coming up that way.”

“Splendid,” Molloy said.

His four accompanying soldiers took up positions at various firing ports. He then ordered them to reload but wait for his command to fire. He then checked his watch. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning. While the sun would not rise for nearlyan hour, the faint glow of predawn now made it easy to spot their enemy. He counted at least a hundred gathered in a column about a hundred yards away. It was they who bore the lone ladder. Pops of musket fire from frustrated Jacobites came from both these men and several clusters along the western base of the hill.

Molloy ordered a volley fired at the ladder group, as they were closest. While waiting for the smoke to clear, and his men to reload their muskets, he hastened over to the eastern wall, where he saw not a single enemy fighter. Returning to his men, they fired another pair of volleys. Several Jacobites had fallen, only to be abandoned by their companions, who fled back down the path to return to their camp.

It was then that the sergeant stood. He ordered his men to remain hidden, lest they give away their true strength to the enemy.

“Three cheers for His Majesty, King George!” Molloy shouted, removing his hat.

James Mace is an author, historian, and life-long storyteller. He began writing as a hobby in the early 2000s, penning physical fitness articles for a bodybuilding website and a magazine called Hardcore Muscle.

James wrote the initial draft of his first novel, Soldier of Rome: The Legionary, as a cathartic means of escapism while serving in Iraq from 2004 to 2005. He has since released thirty-seven books, including fifteen Ancient History best-sellers, and five South African History best-sellers. His works currently span his two favourite eras: Ancient Rome and the British Empire.

Outside of writing historical novels, James is a Research Historian and Script Writer for the channel, Redcoat History. He maintains a blog called The Buffed Historian, sharing random fitness articles and other tales from across history. His hobbies include weightlifting, road cycling, foothills hikes, travelling across the globe, live theatre, video games, and sitting down for a game of Dungeons & Dragons with friends.

 

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**The author is having a sale for May! Get started on a new series for Only .99cents!**

  Wicked Witch

Wicked Ties Book 1

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A Zerelon World Standalone Book 1

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Ubsolvyn District Book 2

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A Castre World Standalone

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VAPORS BILLOWED INTO the chamber in thick masses of orange. Devin choked on the sickly sweet odor.

“Don’t fight it, child,” came the voice—equally cloying—from the darkness beyond the floodlit, glass-walled chamber. “Give yourself up to it.”

The gas surged into Devin’s face, blinding, gagging her. She made it go away. By force of will, a moment’s mental reflex, she flung it back.

Fresh air flooded her nostrils and drove out the syrupy stink. She sucked in a cool, clean breath.

“No!” snapped the voice, crackling with amplified static. “You must not.”

The therapist dropped her with two thousand volts. Devin collapsed to the chamber’s floor, her body jerking, her nerves on fire. The pain was beyond enduring. A pain this intense must be lethal. But she did not die. As she convulsed, her muscles knotted in spasms, she could not scream. No part of her, not even her voice, was under her voluntary control.

“Try it again, child.” Smooth and saccharine once more, her unseen therapist spoke from the concealing shadows as the shock ended and Devin’s pain faded. “Stand up,” the torturer ordered. “And this time, do not fight it. Or your punishment will be the same: swift, sure, and severe.”

Devin struggled upright. She had to brace against the curved glass wall of the gas chamber to keep on her feet. Her muscles had melted from knots into jelly.

An orange cloud flooded the chamber and filled her nose with the stink of rotting fruit.

“Breathe it,” her therapist instructed. “You must.”

But again, Devin reacted by instinct alone. No conscious thought interposed between stimulus and response. The cloud approached; she pushed it away. Pure reflex, action of mind: act of self-preservation. The gas held back, suspended in midair, blocked by the power of her impulse.

On the instant, thousands of volts knocked her to the floor. Pain engulfed Devin, such a pain as must be lethal but wouldn’t do her the service of killing her. She writhed, silent and barely conscious.

Her therapist withdrew the punishment. Devin remained on the floor of the isolation chamber, curled in the fetal position, her long brown hair covering her face. Her body was hers to command once more, but her muscles had no strength to obey.

“You give new meaning to the word persistent, don’t you, girl?” muttered the disembodied voice. Then, more forcefully: “The first step toward healing is to admit you are diseased, Miss Perridin. You have an illness. A mental disorder. I am offering you the cure—in a pleasant aerosol spray that you need only breathe. Once inhaled, the drug acts quickly, and its effects are lasting. But you must take the first step and acknowledge that you want to be cured.”

The voice grew soft, sugary. “Child, for as long as you hold to the notion—the mistaken notion—that your disorder is in some way a strength or a benefit to you, you will continue to fail. And you will suffer the consequences of that failure. We can’t have that, can we?”

Devin gathered the remnants of her strength and rolled onto her back. To stand was impossible; she could barely shape a word.

“No,” she whispered.

She wasn’t speaking to her tormentor.

But: “That’s the spirit!” the therapist responded, sounding genuinely enthused. “Now we try again. Take your medicine like a good girl.”

The orange stink flowed in at the top of the chamber. Devin, lying face up, watched through the curtain of her hair as the cloud descended. She had time to ward it off, to make it go away. But in the soul of her being, nothing sparked. Her reflexes, her instincts, failed to respond. What had been a spontaneous force of mind over matter could offer no resistance.

Devin’s mouth filled with the sickening taste of defeat. The orange cloud enveloped her, a sticky weight, and she choked down lungfuls.

“Wonderful!” her therapist exclaimed. “My dear, I couldn’t be more pleased. This is the tipping point. Your recovery will be much easier from now on, I promise.”

Devin breathed the sickly sweet drug and felt the core of her mind go dead.

Then came the retching. Her body contorted in gut-shredding paroxysms as the drug made her vomit—or attempt to vomit. Her keepers had starved her for so long, her stomach had nothing to bring up. The dry heaves racked her with such violence that she could not breathe. After long moments, unconsciousness brought relief.

Castles in the cornfield provided the setting for Deborah J. Lightfoot’s earliest flights of fancy. On her father’s farm in Texas, she grew up reading tales of adventure and reenacting them behind ramparts of sun-drenched grain. She left the farm to earn a degree in journalism and write award-winning books of history and biography. High on her bucket list was the desire to try her hand at the genre she most admired. The result is Waterspell, a multi-layered fantasy series about a girl and the wizard who suspects her of being so dangerous to his world, he believes he’ll have to kill her … which troubles him, since he’s fallen in love with her.

 

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Dan checked his watch. Again. He ran a finger inside his shirt collar. The damn thing was custom-made. For what he paid for it, he should bloody well be able to breathe.

Stop fidgeting. Anyone would think you’d never worn a tux before.

Any number of appreciative glances assured him it looked outstanding—if he’d been in any state to notice.

“Relax,” Mr. Wilson advised from behind his ever-present newspaper. “My wife is well aware of the curtain time, and she won’t miss it for anything.”

“I feel like I ought to apologize for this,” Dan offered.

“Eh…Martha would have found an excuse to stuff me into this thing sooner or later.” Mr. Wilson—or at least his newspaper—shrugged. “It’s fine. Anyway, it’s good for her to have a pretty girl to fuss over. It takes her mind off…well…it’s good for her. This is better than one of those charity events. People expect me to talk at those things. And write checks. The seats at the opera house are extremely comfortable and if I get bored, I can take a nap.”

Dan let the subject slide. He’d done more in-depth digging online since they’d be spending the entire evening with the Wilsons. He knew what a day spent dress shopping and primping with a young woman would mean to Mrs. Wilson.

A flash of icy silver-blue caught his eye. Just like in Madrid, his mouth went dry, and he forgot to breathe for a moment. Also, just like in Madrid, he vowed to never again criticize his sister’s taste in movies. All that romantic hokum must have some basis in fact.

Lacey and Mrs. Wilson stepped off the elevator. The older lady wore a softly draped navy-blue gown with a glittering broach on one shoulder—a high-end fake, he guessed, since no one in their right mind would travel with a genuine piece of that scale.

But Lacey…unlike her usual bright-colored outfits, tonight she wore a frosty blue gown that shimmered when she moved. Her hair was swept up in an elegant knot, with a few loose curls framing her face. The entire ensemble somehow managed to be both demure and sexy at the same time.

Well, it was Lacey. Dan considered her sexy in sweaty workout clothes. He questioned the eyesight of anyone who did not.

Mr. Wilson folded his ever-present newspaper and swatted him with it. “Breathe, young man.” 

A Perfect Brew

Destination Romance Book 1.5

Dan Lewis is a man on a journey—and not just the summer tour of Prague. He’s escaping his past and embracing the sweetness of his new love and new career with equal fervor. But old instincts are strong. When his younger sister, who he’s taken care of all his life, joins them for her graduation trip, it stirs bitter memories of their history and all the things he did to keep them safe.

Lacey Devere is savoring every drop of summer, visiting romantic locales and reveling in long, steamy nights with Dan. She dumped her past mistakes down the drain and embarked on their bold new future together. However, she’s learning love is more than just sugar and cream.

Together Dan and Lacey learn true love means accepting your partner’s imperfections and blending the bitter with the sweet. And sometimes, the best family is the one you find for yourself.

 

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Dan sauntered into the hotel lobby, hand in hand with Lacey. A few paces in, she wrapped her free hand around his arm, slowing them enough for Dylan to get a few steps ahead. She rested her head against his shoulder and smiled at him. He grinned, watching his sister, frozen on the green and blue mosaic tile floor, staring around in open-mouthed wonder.

Honestly, he’d had the exact same reaction the first time he walked into this hotel. Almost forgot to look for security cameras. He found them easily now: main entrance, front desk, concierge desk, and elevator bank. A tinkling fountain marked the center of the two-story lobby. Potted palm trees created intimate corners, and armchairs and settees upholstered in soft blue velvet nestled among the greenery.

Dylan wandered over to the gleaming glass enclosure, stretching to the skylights. She touched her fingertips to the window and a peacock stirred and blinked its beady eyes at her. A moment later, it unfurled its glorious tail feathers and took a few mincing steps closer to the glass. She glanced over her shoulder at them. “Okay, now I understand why you do this. Wow. Just…”

“Wow?” Lacey asked, tugging Dan by the hand.

A uniformed bruiser Dan pegged as security frowned at Dylan’s attire, but then noticed her teal Dolce Vita wristband and subsided with a gracious smile and nod.

“Very wow.” Dylan flung her arms around Dan. “You’re the best big brother ever. Thank you.”

He kissed her temple. “You’re welcome.”

“Are they all like this? All the hotels you stay in?”

“Well, all the hotels the company uses are five or six stars, but this one’s pretty spectacular, even by their standards. Why don’t we get you settled, then we can walk around and explore the neighborhood a bit?”

“And find the nearest source of non-snack bar coffee?”

He rolled his eyes affectionately and steered her toward the shining brass elevators with filigree peacocks rendered on their doors.

A Perfectly Imperfect Holiday

Destination Romance Book 2

Lacey Devere is looking forward to her first holiday season with the love of her life. Unfortunately, her sister’s wedding wiped her out. But is it just stress? Or are she and Dan facing the prospect of another passenger on their new journey together?

Dan Lewis thought he had it all—a new legitimate career and an amazing woman he loves. But his beginning is off to a rocky start. A robbery took place on the last tour, and he has no alibi. Can he live down his past, or will his and Lacey’s first holiday season together be their last?

As the Christmas tour progresses through London, Amsterdam, Nuremberg, and Vienna, they’ll deal with everything from bungled reservations to lost luggage—as well as a couple of life’s biggest questions—with their trademark blend of humor and love. Most of all, they’ll figure out how to build a life together.

 

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They were staying at the “fairy castle” hotel again. The doorman bowed and a waft of spicey pine scent from the fresh greenery tickled Dan’s nose as they entered.

Christmas trees of various sizes adorned in shades of blue, white, and silver replaced the cream and pink floral displays from their previous stay. A majestic gingerbread castle held pride of place on a satin-draped display table in the center of the lobby—thankfully with no rampaging soccer fans to destroy it.

Tasteful instrumental holiday music played quietly over the sound system. Everything was neat and polished and in its place. An aura of peaceful late-night quiet prevailed.

The desk clerk smiled broadly and gestured to an enticing tower of pale blue and white macarons which stood on the front desk. “Gruss Gott.”

“Gruss Gott,” Lacey replied, reaching for a cookie.

Dan adjusted his sling irritably. “Dan Lewis and Lacey Devere, with the Dolce Vita holiday tour.”

“Of course, sir. We understand from your hostess that one of your bags has yet to arrive. We took the liberty of prechecking you into your suite and having the remainder of your luggage delivered. Your bathroom is fully stocked with complimentary toiletries, but if there is anything else we can supply, please call and we will be more than happy to assist you.” He tapped a few keys on his computer, then slid a key pack across the counter.

Dan eyed it suspiciously. “You have our reservation?”

“Certainly, Herr Lewis. Dolce Vita travelers are among our most elite guests. We are delighted to welcome you and will of course do whatever we can to assist you with your stay.”

Dan still didn’t take the key pack. “And this is for a clean room?”

The bewildered clerk nodded.

“With no one else in it?”

Another nod.

“The door locks? And the world champion sports ball fans aren’t having a wild party on our floor?”

The clerk edged subtly away from the desk.

“The building’s not on fire?”

“Perhaps Herr Lewis would care to speak to the manager on duty?”

A security guard dressed in a dark blue blazer emerged from the back office. He nodded pleasantly while exuding a distinct aura of “don’t mess with me.”

Lacey laid her warm hand on Dan’s good arm and squeezed gently while offering a bright smile to the desk clerk. “I’m sure it’s fine. We’ve had…issues…with our accommodations this trip.”

The clerk stared at her wide-eyed. “Apparently so.”

“And on that note, the missing piece of luggage is my garment bag. It’s got my gown for the New Year’s Eve ball, so I’d appreciate a call whenever it’s delivered. The night manager can wake me up—I don’t care. I just want to know it’s safe.”

“Of course, Fräulein. Should you wish, our concierge would be happy to provide a list of fine clothing establishments in the area.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary but thank you. Are there any parcels for us?”

The clerk checked his computer. “Not at this time. Should any arrive, they will be delivered to your suite.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” She elbowed Dan.

“Yeah…thanks.”

****

Dan slumped onto a couch covered in elaborate ice blue brocade. His movements dislodged several slippery satin cushions, which tumbled to the floor. A Christmas tree decorated with shimmering blue glass baubles and white velvet ribbon swags stood in the corner. Glittering silver icicles tipped the branches. Fairy lights draping the tree and mantel cast a soft glow over the space.

Lacey returned from a walk-through of their suite and sat next to him, sending even more cushions cascading to the carpet. “Hey, guess what? It’s a nice clean room, with no one else in it, it’s a reasonable temperature, the doors lock, and there’s hot water. How’s that for a Christmas miracle?”

“It looks like a blue satin cushion factory exploded in here,” he grumbled.

“If they’d exploded, the room would be full of feathers, which it isn’t and please don’t give the universe any ideas. It has enough of its own.” She nestled into his side, filling his senses with hints of lavender and warmth. “It’s a beautiful room, we can sit on the furniture, and the tub is big enough for both of us.”

“And I can’t soak in it.”

You’re being a jerk. You realize that, right?

She rolled her eyes. “You can rest your arm on a towel on the edge. There’s lots of plush blue and white towels. The velvety kind.”

He snorted. “I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She toyed with the buttons on his shirt. “You know, right this second, you’re reminding me of a very particular holiday character, and it’s not a flattering one.”

He exhaled explosively and sagged against the back of the sofa. “I’m sorry. It’s just…this whole trip, everything’s gone sideways.”

“And now we’re here in a lovely room and it’s almost Christmas and can we please just try to enjoy ourselves? Please?”

Perfect By Design

Destination Romance Book 2.5

Set amidst the magnificent architecture and Mediterranean sunshine of Barcelona, Dan and Lacey design their perfect future. No matter where in the world they travel, they know home is in each other’s arms. Together their love is as strong as a Gothic cathedral’s granite foundation, as whimsical as Gaudi’s bright-tiled dragon house, and as passionate as the Sant Jordi festival’s red roses. Now all they need is to escape a lonely nanny and her charge, and a womanizing architect long enough to settle a very important question.

 

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Dan lolled against the doorframe, watching Lacey. He never needed an excuse, but stretching up on her toes, running her fingertips along the top of a picture frame did very interesting things to the hemline of her little flowered sundress. Do I really get to have it all? The whole world, and her, too?

She’d scrunched up her face adorably, concentrating on the project at hand, and he had no willpower where she was concerned, so he strolled over and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and pressed his lips to her pulse point.

“Babe? Whatcha up to?” he mumbled against her skin.

She relaxed into his arms and huffed a stray lock of hair out of her face. “The wallpaper design was giving me a headache, so I thought it would be easier to close my eyes and go by touch.”

He dropped a kiss onto the top of her blonde head. “Clever.” Her familiar scent of lavender and citrus, and something uniquely Lacey, enveloped him, heightening his senses. Have we got time to check out that bed? There’s gotta be a mattress somewhere under all those red brocade battering rams. Seriously, who thinks a stiff cylinder covered in scratchy material is a good idea for a pillow?

She wriggled around in his embrace and slid her arms around his neck. “This would be a really easy room to hide a mic or camera in. No one would look closely enough to try and find it.”

He kissed her forehead. “Except us.”

She grinned, then pressed up on her toes and kissed his chin. “Except us.”

He rubbed his thumbs over the thin material of her sundress. “And did you? Find anything, I mean?” He hadn’t, but one never knew. Hence the standard security check at every new destination.

“Not even a bit of dust. You?”

“Not a thing. Whatever we might think of the décor, the staff certainly takes good care of the place.” He tugged her a little closer. “And what else did you notice?”

“There’s a camera focused on the elevator bank, and the fire stairs are at the left end of the corridor.”

“Eight doors down.”

“Picky.”

“Hey, there was a night in Amsterdam—”

Lacey shuddered and burrowed against him. “Please don’t remind me.”

Okay…enough teasing. “How about some dinner? Barcelona has amazing cuisine.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”

He kept his tone carefully nonchalant. “Oh, all sorts of things—local seafood and game-”

“That’s code for things I won’t touch with a ten-foot fork.”

“What have you got against rabbit—”

“Eww! Rabbits are for cuddling, not eating!”

“They are here.” She cringed and made a gagging noise.

“Or squid?”

“Gross. Just gross.”

“So, we’re in one of the culinary wonderlands of the world and you’re gonna go look for a burger joint?”

“If I have to.”

“What could entice you to try a regional delicacy?”

“No bunny rabbits and no squid. I mean it!”

“How do you feel about snails?”

“How do you feel about sleeping on the couch?”

He eyed the stiff brocade monstrosity. “That couch?” The Chesterfield in question was upholstered in red, with a pattern worked in shiny gold thread. It made him itchy just looking at it from across the room. It looked as though a quarter would bounce right off. A good sofa invited you to sink into its cushioned embrace. That thing looked like it would snigger haughtily while he slid to the floor.

She smirked. “That couch.”

He shook his head in defeat and amusement. “Fine. You win…this time.”

She smirked up at him, her eyes sparkling. “I usually do.”

Oh, is that how it’s gonna be? Game on. “Let’s go find you a burger. But I will find something local you’ll like.”

“You can try.

I am an author with a penchant for writing about strong, sassy ladies and the men they love (and cats!). I have a background in historic and theatrical costuming. I live in New York with my cat, Miss Toby Toebeanz, and lots and lots of books.

Destination Romance is a modern day “lady and the highwayman” that follows the adventures of Lacey Devere and Dan Lewis as they travel the most glamorous locations in Europe. Picture Imperfect, A Perfect Brew, A Perfectly Imperfect Holiday, and Perfect by Design are currently available from your favorite retailer.

Falling for the Cat Guy is a sweet, small-town Halloween romance (with cats!) currently available in paperback and digital formats. The series is heavily influenced by real life cat rescuers. Mistletoe Kisses for Two, Ted and Hollyn’s Christmas romance, will be on sale November 2^nd in paperback and digital formats.

You Otter be in Pictures is a small-town summer romance with a hint of spice, on sale now, in paperback and digital formats from your favorite retailer.

 

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