Oct 31

New Release Blitz: The Endless Sea Between Us by Lucy Mason (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Endless Sea Between Us

Author: Lucy Mason

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/31/2023

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 66600

Genre: Fantasy, Romance, fantasy, family-drama, witch, mermaid, magic, prince, quest, body swap

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Description

Five years ago, Faeryn Moss lost her family and home to a plague that swept her village. As the sole survivor, she was rumored to be a witch—a rumor she never denied because it was the truth. Ostracized and cast out in fear, she now lives a quiet life in a cave on the beach, alone with her magic and the only thing that never let her down, the only thing she loves: the sea. But when she sings up a storm borne from her grief in order to collect a net full of the sea’s treasure, she gets more than she bargained for. There’s a mermaid tangled within it.

Zale, washed into the net by the storm, is full of questions about humanity. Banished from her society for rescuing a drowning human, all she wants is a chance on land to start over. Seeing an opportunity for both of them to get what they want, Faeryn creates a transmutation rune—but as they go from reluctant allies to something else and Zale thaws Faeryn’s frosty heart, they struggle with what’s more important…their chance at a new beginning or their budding romance.

Everything changes when the kingdom’s witch-hunting prince decides to take Zale as a member of the royal court and the potential future queen against her will. Faeryn must follow her across the sea so their transmutation rune can be completed by the next full moon or risk losing her love and her life to the very magic she cherishes.

Excerpt

The Endless Sea Between Us
Lucy Mason © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Faeryn

The seaside village of Acantha was convinced the only way a girl could be the sole survivor in a house struck down by plague was if she was either a witch or was cursed. Little did they know, the village stopped thriving not because I had survived but because my mother hadn’t. Not all witches wove spells of bad intention; she blessed the town all her life, ensuring good fortune, plentiful crops, and favorable weather. She spent my first thirteen years murmuring words of protection, resilience, and well-being over me before kissing my forehead and telling me good night. It was the only thing that saved me—I had no proof, but I knew it as sure as I knew her blood, witch’s blood, ran in my veins.

The village had burned my house—and several others—to the ground to keep the plague from spreading, though I had saved and hidden my mother’s references and spell books. Where she had closely guarded her secret, I never denied their assertions about my magic, even as the threat of witch-hunts spread outward from the capital like a deadly ripple. I had been encouraged to move along to another town. I had not-so-respectfully declined and went about my business, because if Acantha was going to hate and fear me, I was going to give them a reason to do so. If they wanted a villain, a pariah, I’d give them one.

I rebuilt my life in a cave off the beach, only venturing to town for Wednesday market to buy goods I couldn’t procure myself and sell the gifts the sea brought me. I hoarded my blessings and spells; I used them to keep myself dry and warm, to carve runes in the stone to conceal the entrance and entice fish to swim into the small pool that filled every time the tide rose and trapped them when it fell.

I occasionally used magic for less scrupulous things—but only when I had to. The sea gladly turned over its riches to me, and I didn’t care to take advantage of it, but sometimes money was a necessity. So, on the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, I whispered words of dryness and care, dipping my fingertips into the small dish of ground seashells and the ash of burned driftwood and running them over the fabric of my dress and up and down the leather of my boots. I marched down to the beach clutching my net, a giant thing I’d made myself, hours and hours spent weaving golden thread—bounty, vitality, security—into the hundreds of knots holding the ropes together.

I waded into the water, to my knees, then my hips, then my chest. The waves washed in and out, and I felt the current—but remained dry. I swam out and tied the net to a buoy I had anchored there, then attached the other end to a buoy farther down the beach. I ducked under, my eyes stinging, and traced a symbol like a bow, for closure, capture, finality. It glowed briefly then faded, pulsing very dimly in the murky depths. There wasn’t much I could do below the surface; runes were always more effective when they were imbued with the intention of spoken words.

My waterproofing charm was wearing off—drips of water collected in my boots and my skirts clung to my legs, not wet yet but just faintly damp. The first five or six times I’d done this, I had come out looking like a drowned sailor, my hair in dripping snarls and my boots so heavy with water I could hardly walk. Practice, time, and patience had improved me—I stood on the beach and lifted my arms and whispered. The little droplets of water clinging to me and dampening my dress evaporated.

If I was the heedless nightmare they feared, I would do the next step without warning the villagers. Instead, I made the quarter hour’s walk into town. Well, I say town—it was really nothing more than a small cluster of houses, a blacksmith, a tavern, a butcher, and a cobblestone square for the market to set up in while vendors passed through. The children, towheaded and wide-eyed, dared each other to get close to me. They huddled together and whispered, “It’s the sea witch! She’ll turn you into an eel!” as I walked past them. I kept my eyes straight ahead on my way to the blacksmith’s shop, barely able to resist the urge to lunge and hiss and make them scream in terror. My mother would be disappointed to know I had done it before; my father would have been delighted. I’d inherited my temperament and inability to suffer superstitious fools from him.

Someone had started the rumor that if children misbehaved, I’d drag them down to my seaside cave and turn them into a fish—or worse, eat them. It was meant to make little ones behave, to come inside when their mothers called them, but I had never exactly refuted the outrageous claim. Sometimes fear was a powerful tool. It was the only thing keeping them from attacking me—the only thing keeping them quiet.

The tall, gawky apprentice at the blacksmith’s was bent over the forge, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. He was one of the few who didn’t find me frightening; he facilitated most of my communication with Acantha at large. His family had been my family’s neighbors until the sickness took my mother and father, when they had retreated to the far end of Acantha to escape contamination. We had played together as children. He still had the friendly, cheerful manner and sweet disposition of a boy who hadn’t lost everything, though, and the loss of my parents hung like a veil between us. A veil he couldn’t see or feel, but one I was always painfully aware of.

“Owen.”

He didn’t startle or turn to look at me, a gentle clink from the fire as he withdrew a piece of metal glowing cherry red. Once he quenched it in a barrel of water, clouds of steam billowing around us, he coughed, clearing the air with his hand. Through the haze I could see his hopeful grin.

“Faeryn! What can I do for you today?”

“There’ll be a squall tonight.”

His face fell, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes fading with his smile. “Oh. Okay. Natural, or…?”

“Unnatural. Only rain will touch the town. I can keep the winds confined to the beach. Spread the word. Don’t let anyone wander down there, and don’t let any boats near the water.”

Owen tossed his thick, sturdy gloves onto his workbench. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll let everyone know. You don’t have to go just yet. Would you like some tea?”

His master wouldn’t be wild about the idea of a witch in his workshop. Eckhart disliked me as much, if not more, than most other villagers. Owen was his at-will employee; catching him in my company could be the end of his promising career. So I shook my head, because it was a lonely life, but I wouldn’t let him take the fall. The village had turned its back on me when I’d been orphaned, and if I’d made it this long on my own, I wouldn’t let a boy pity me for it.

“If you change your mind, I always have a pot brewing.”

“I’m afraid Eckhart wouldn’t be terribly pleased to find me here…or that you’d shared his tea with me. The answer is still no.” Every time he asked, and every time I refused. The days of playing together were long gone; too much grief had gone under the bridge since then.

He frowned, a little wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “Someday I’ll be a proper blacksmith, not just an apprentice, and you can come in whenever you like. Eckhart doesn’t have any say in what I do after work, though. Tea later?”

I backed away, exasperated. “I said no. Good day, Owen.”

“Goodbye, Faeryn! I’ll see you later!” he called after me, and I ran for the beach, away from him and the people who had turned their backs on me and my family, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust on the path. It was easier to cling to the bitterness that kept me afloat than drown in the sorrow.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Lucy lives in rural southern Illinois with a frankly ridiculous amount of yarn and books. During the day she works in adult education and by night she’s a writer and dabbler in yarncrafts. She knits, loves video games and podcasts, and cries over fictional characters regularly.

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Oct 24

New Release Blitz: Sealed with a Hiss by Eule Grey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Sealed with a Hiss

Series: Kitten and Blonde, Book One

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/24/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 39900

Genre: Paranormal, contemporary, paranormal, British/Yorkshire/Ladybower Reservoir, lesbian, over 40, mystery, cold case, blogger, reporters, local paper, small town, witch, bikers, neurodivergence, sexy lizard lady, interspecies sex

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Description

Kitten and Blonde: Mostly Paranormal. Sometimes alien. Always gentle.

Mave Kitten is ecstatic when she lands a dream job as a paranormal journalist for a local newspaper, the Echo. It’s a chance in a lifetime for a neurodivergent Witch. She’s a little nervous about the boss, leather-clad motorcyclist Lisa Blonde. But Lisa’s got a heart of gold, and Mave soon settles into her new role. There’s even an office cat to help out. Only one tiny problem remains—Lisa doesn’t believe in the paranormal. How is Mave to change her mind?

Her Little Joke

Mave and Lisa investigate a creepy sound emanating from a nearby canal. Little do they know to what depths the trail will lead: Ghosts, a haunted well, ignorance, a flapping bird. What of the woman in green? Mave’s interviews lead to some unexpected situations, and all the time, the hissing sound grows louder. The last place Mave and Lisa wish to visit is the depths of a macabre well. Heck, no. They’re just ordinary women with bills to pay. But entities are fashionably unpredictable, and ghost whisperers can’t choose when to answer a supernatural SOS. When the darkness closes in, Mave is glad of Lisa’s winning formula of strength and softness.

Swamp Woman

Although Mave loves her Sunday dates with Lisa, she wishes the outings would lead to something more intimate. When a swamp monster at Ladybower Reservoir goes AWOL and a researcher disappears, it’s a brilliant opportunity for Mave and Lisa to get better acquainted and stretch their investigative skills. Mave leaves no gravestone unturned. Phantom aircraft, a missing scientist, abandoned lizard tails, tussles in the bushes: all pathways lead to one heated conclusion—it’s time to tell Lisa how she feels.

Kitten and Blonde set forth on Lisa’s motorbike armed with packed lunches and crucial questions. Why is a mysterious noise coming from the well? What’s causing the toxic chemicals at Ladybower Reservoir? Where’s the nearest pub? Maybe the most crucial question of all is whether Lisa Blonde will ever believe in the supernatural.

Her Little Joke was previously published as part of the NineStar anthology, Listen: The Sound of Fear.

Excerpt

Sealed with a Hiss
Eule Grey © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Blog one

Random fact of the day: a green wig is hanging on a hook in our office.

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for Litten’s Echo, our very own free version of the New Yorker. Over the next few months, we’ll be offering weekly broadcasts about issues that matter to you—our lovely residents of Litten Vale.

When the boss ‘asked’ me to run a blog, I almost died from shock. It had been another uneventful afternoon. I was sorting the Echo’s files. Round and round in a forever loop. The office cat snored, and our Lisa was gliding, quite skilfully, on one leg.

I’m nervous of ‘she who must be obeyed’ and, at the same time, hypnotised by her idiosyncratic behaviours. Still, I had to ask. “What’re you doing, Lisa? Ice skating?”

It’s true to say we’re wary of each other. Life has taught me to be cautious. I talk too much and don’t notice hints. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. On my first day as junior reporter, I noticed and looked. Lisa reciprocated. Now, we’re trapped in a bizarre cycle of wariness and looky-looky.

In response to my question, Lisa hurled some wipes onto the floor, placed her foot on top, and continued skating. “Cleaning the floor.”

I winced, started talking, and then couldn’t stop. “Wipes are no good for the environment. The cloth takes five hundred years to biodegrade. Haven’t we got a mop? Shall I buy one? We need cat treats too. I’ll get the pricey kind. Kitty doesn’t eat the crappy ones you get. Shall I get organic? Or how about that mice kind?”

Lisa grimaced, as if to suggest I’d twisted off her arm. “Did she tell you she doesn’t like the crappy ones?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly. But—”

A firm expression took hold of Lisa’s face. “No pricey treats. The cat can stand the cheaper brands if she knows what’s good for her. You, Ms Kitten, are about to record an interview down at Ellison. Too busy for mops! If you run, you can catch the two o’clock bus.”

Record an interview? I’d have been happier if she’d told me to join the army. “No! Interview actual people and make broadcasts? I couldn’t possibly.”

“Yes,” she’d said. “Definitely. I want a weekly blog about local urban myths.”

Dear listener, I died a death of horror and then came back to life and got on with it. Mauve Mave’s like that.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

Less than a day later, and the first blog’s being broadcast. My sensitive nature isn’t equipped to contradict six feet of muscle and blonde. Between you and me, I call her the ‘Lisanator’. Blonde, like the beer. Big, strong, and got a kick. Her words, not mine. Our Lisa isn’t one to argue with, but don’t snitch on me. She never listens to broadcasts or the news. If you don’t say anything, she won’t know.

A little personal info before frying the chips of journalism. I’m fifty-two years old and am a proud Littenite. I love cats, documentaries, cheese and onion flavour crisps, and the colour purple. Very important, that. Fluffy cushions and wind chimes also make me happy. Friends call me Mauve Mave, and so can you.

What don’t I enjoy? Tight spaces and flapping wings. Urgh. I know it’s a daft thing, and you can blame it on my sister, Tamara. When did it start? All I remember is a bird or butterfly flapping in my face and a lot of girlish screaming. Tam says we were in a library lift, and it broke down. When we got out, a big sea gull appeared and flapped at us. Witches Tipple beer! So horrible.

Reporting for the Echo means a lot to my girlish heart. I was made up when Lisa offered the job. Literally, crying with joy. I still don’t know why she picked me from hundreds of applicants. I don’t ask in case it was a mistake.

I’m nothing to write home about and have had too many thankless café and cleaning jobs. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! As Dad says, any work’s work. Bless him; he’s always been a pub philosopher. Just don’t get him onto fracking or craft beer. Not if you want to get to sleep that night.

Our first blog will be—hopefully—of interest to Litton folks and especially anyone from down Ellison way. By now, you’ll have guessed what I mean because everyone’s talking about it. Yeah, that’s right. The sound…

According to Lisa, it’s something of a local legend. Kids have made memes, and the neighbourhood app is abuzz. Like all good scares, the noise began during a dark and stormy Tuesday night. Right after Coronation Street, and before Holby. Some heard a buzz and others more a hiss. A few claimed to sense a vibration coming from underneath the house.

Weird, no? Irritating, certainly.

By next morning, the noise had vanished along with the good tempers of Ellison. Tired, confused, and spooked, people got on with their day and forgot about it… Until a few nights later when the same thing happened.

Now the sound is a regular occurrence, despite residents doing their best to get to the bottom of things. They’ve called the council, plumbers, electricians, and a roads expert. The area has been tapped, dug, poked, and prodded. Nothing has worked, and the noise persists.

Of course, rumours are rife. Lisa told me some old story about the canal, as eerie as spaghetti in a stew.

Get a brew on, and make sure you’ve a biscuit at hand, dear reader. Are you ready?

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!

She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!

For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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Oct 24

New Release Blitz: Fugitive by GiGi DeGraham (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Fugitive

Series: The Steele Pack, Book Two

Author: GiGi DeGraham

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/24/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 92500

Genre: Paranormal, contemporary, paranormal, magic/magic users, romance, gay, shifters, genderqueer/genderfluid, asexual, interracial, action/adventure, dark, suspense, tribal politics/spiritual beliefs, off-grid living/isolation, subsistence/hunting, soulmates, rivals to lovers, second chance, graphic violence/tribal warfare, mysterious wolves, soulmates, cross-dressing

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Description

Ryan is stubborn, he always has been. Patience has never been Thomas’s best trait. It’s been nine lonely years. Ryan thought Thomas was dead. Some secrets can’t be told. There are rules and laws that can’t be broken and often unreasonable Gods enforcing them. It’s going to be an uphill climb to fight for Ryan’s forgiveness. All Thomas wants is to spend the rest of his life with his soulmate (even if he is a fugitive), for them to have the picture-perfect life they always dreamed of together. They’ve finally got their chance to have it all, but…

The Bellum Pack is coming, and that can only mean one thing.

Thomas doesn’t have time to plan a war, win back his soulmate, and worry about his best friend, Penn, and whatever he’s got going on with the worst Pillar of all. How does the sweetest guy fall for their most feared God?

Thomas has to figure out how to keep Ryan safe and protect his entire pack from the encroaching war-hungry Wolves. As if that weren’t enough, having Tristan Steele, a human, as his Alpha might be what pushes Thomas over the edge, not to mention keeping Penn’s heart from getting broken. And somehow, he has to manage it all without burning down their world.

Excerpt

Fugitive
GiGi DeGraham © 2023
All Rights Reserved

His eyes were fixed on the classic red and gleaming chrome Peterbilt emblem in the center of the hood. That oval was all he could see as 80,000 pounds of semitruck and trailer barreled out of control across the median towards them. An unharnessed scream ripped from Thomas as he yanked furiously on the steel handcuffs and chains bolting him to the van floor.

Seconds—he only had seconds.

Time stalled as Death lifted its fist to pound on the front door.

“Oh my God,” the driver yelled and jerked the wheel of the transport van hard to the right. The collective fear was as abrupt as the jolt of the vehicle. Men screamed for their lives.

The unavoidable impact was a bomb exploding, in slow motion, frame-by-frame—a force as powerful as the fist of Muhammad Ali. The collision knocked all the air out of the world around Thomas, out of him. Oxygen ripped from him in a terrifying vacuum, creating a breathless panicking void, where all he heard was the internal lack of gasping in the eighth round. Sucking desperately for denied air, Thomas was Foreman when he finally went down. Glass flew through the interior, suspended, as bodies hurled into the side of the van.

The guard in the front passenger seat was instantly ejected. There and then gone. Blood from the dying driver, who sat at the point of impact, rained, blowing back through the cargo area as the passenger van careened to the right as if propelled by a hurricane. They left the roadway, momentarily airborne, and crashed hard before flipping through the woods, tires over hood. Once, twice, and again in a blur, with the impacts breaking out the remaining windows and slamming the unbelted but chained passengers against the walls, then the ceiling, and finally the floor.

And oh, God—the screaming.

It broke the unbreathing silence—that deafened ringing in his ears as Thomas’s head struck the left side metal window frame. The inmate behind him, unnaturally twisted and flipped over, landed between Thomas and the window. His seatmate, a big guy, tatted with a heavy hand, lay over him on his right side. He had to be at least 250 on the hoof. Hot blood spat rhythmically from an artery onto Thomas’s body. For a moment, the air smelled like old patina-greened plumbing pipes. Or the smell of sweaty palms after clutching pennies to throw at your buddy’s bike wheel. Copper and mechanical mixed.

Somehow, in the chaos of the accident, Thomas had been sandwiched between a back passenger and his seatmate, now dead after bleeding out in only hot, pumping seconds. Even the big guy bled out fast in what seemed like gallons. Neither had their seatbelts on. Thomas opened one eye, and it was a meaty crimson bath inside the Econoline.

Thomas sucked in a second, at last, ragged full breath. It burned and now tasted and smelled like machine smoke and hot metal. If a nightmare could have a scent, this was it. Thomas’s heart pounded; his nose stung as more fumes mixed together. It was hard to breathe—toxic, heavy, and overwhelming. Bits of glass tinkled and clinked around him as they dropped from the now open window frames, releasing from their rubber seals just as the tumble cycle ended.

With tremoring hands, he lifted his chains against their attachment. The floor bolts and hasp jingled and clanked—his manacled hands now freed from their installation. A broken tree branch had pierced the van’s steel floor. Thomas traced the path of the limb where it kabobbed through tatt-man and the back of their shared bench seat. His head pounded with pain, and blood covered his left eye as he tried to blink it away. Gore soaked Thomas, and he wasn’t sure if it was even his own. And something was on fire, searing in his left arm.

“Is anyone okay?” Thomas cried out.

The real panic set in when there was no response. Nothing. No one screamed anymore. For a moment, he heard a gurgle behind him, a wet exhale, and then nothing. Just that heavy dripping and another steady sound. The smoke thickened, and the engine ticked even louder. Like a timed device warning Thomas with its steady tick, tick…before the boom. The message was clear.

Thomas twisted, worked his hands back beneath the behemoth slumped over him, and frantically felt for the seatbelt latch at his right side. He’d been the only one they belted. The first one picked up and the only transport from juvie. A juvenile transport liability rule had just saved his life. Jesus Christ, he had to get out of here right now.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Thomas yelled over his wet, fumbling fingers. His fine motor skills were forgotten until finally, the clasp released its deadly hold on the buckle.

Frantic, he worked to maneuver the belt off and then wiggled and slid his way out from under the impaled passenger. Thomas turned back to him to check for a pulse, but he was dead. Thomas didn’t have time to feel bad for him, but he still did. No one deserved to go out like that. He looked to the guy pretzeled half in and half out of the side window. His leg was gone from the knee down, his skin already ghostly white. His eyes were wide open, mouth frozen in a dying scream. The other three inmates were a fresh Jackson Pollock on white metal.

Thomas swallowed hard, trying to thrust down the emotions that wanted to well, and assessed himself, wiping his eye with his shoulder. He couldn’t see out of one but looked around wildly with the other. Everyone was dead, and Thomas screamed. He scared-shitless screamed. Thomas dumbly shook his seatmate with his cuffed hands, unwilling to be in this nightmare alone.

Something popped towards the front of the van, and there was a crack. A splitting of wood, and the van jerked forward in a hard punch. Thomas looked through the opening, where the windshield should have been, to where the van clung precariously at the edge of a drop-off. He was the front car fool approaching the high pause of a rollercoaster, only hearing the clicking countdown before the shit-your-pants plummet.

“Help!” Thomas tried to yell through the smoke.

Get out now, then run…from one of the voices inside his head. Thomas had heard this voice so many times before and didn’t question it now. He scrambled over the passenger hanging from the window, clinging to his body like a ladder, then slid over him and dropped to the ground. He looked around—frantic for his bag of personal property—his letters.

RUN!

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

GiGi DeGraham lives, plays, and learns in New Orleans. She is a proud southerner and enjoys fixing up old houses and writing. Most of her story and character ideas develop while sanding and painting. She loves to roller skate and has a favorite author-named cat called Irving, after Washington Irving. You’ll always find her with an audiobook in her ear and listening to everything narrated by Kirt Graves.

GiGi prefers the outdoors when the weather permits, going on rock and fossil hunts or visiting local rock shops. Otherwise, she’s clacking away at her keyboard until the wee hours. GiGi firmly believes downtime should be spent on a porch swing. GiGi is a life-long supporter of the LGBTQ+ community.

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Oct 20

Book Blitz: Sweet Delight by Mikala Ash (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Sweet Delight

Series: Protect and Serve (#11)

Author: Mikala Ash

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: October 20, 2023

Heat Level: 5 – Erotica

Pairing: Male/Male/Male

Length: 95 pages

Genre: Action Adventure, Paranormal Women’s Fiction, Romance, Bisexual, Multisexual & Pansexual, Military, Veterans, and First Responders, Multiple Partners, Second Editions, Shapeshifters, Vampires

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Synopsis

Love is the greatest shape shifter of all.

Love can be humanity’s greatest strength — or our biggest weakness.

The poet William Blake knew this, and for the longest time I felt as though I’d been born into his Endless Night, my life destined for eternal misery. Tragedy stalked me with the persistence of an insatiable tiger: the death of my mother, my mistaken belief I had caused the death of my partner, Detective Mal Blake, the betrayal by Anton, my lover of three years, and his subsequent death at the hands of a demon of the worst sort.

But then, out of nowhere, Mal returned to me, and with him came Tommy, a divinely beautiful shifter. For almost half a year we’ve been inseparable, a threesome in every meaning of the word.

My name is Ciara Callaghan. I’m a cop, and I thought I’d seen love from both sides, seen both the best and the worst it can do.

I was wrong.

The worst is yet to come.

Publisher’s Note: Although this story can be read as a standalone, the characters were first introduced in Endless Night, then appeared in Realm of Night. The books are understood best when read sequentially.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

I used to love poetry. Now I don’t trust poets as far as I can spit.

They tantalize us with seemingly profound thoughts and evocative images, beguiling us, fooling us into believing they know something about the human condition. Now I think they are as ignorant and scared as the rest of us, arranging their pretty words not to reveal the secrets of life, but to quell their own deep disquiet.

I wondered, as I gazed at Tommy’s lacerated chest, what would the poets make of that? My eyes lingered on his erect cock with barely controlled lust. He was beautiful, not just physically, but spiritually as well. He was an honorable man, brave, thoughtful and wise in a nerdy way. I was so lucky to have him in my life. That he lay there so close to death broke my heart.

I guess the poets have expended many words on the subject of broken hearts, but to me, at that moment they were just empty platitudes.

Since I was a little girl my favorite poet has been William Blake, mainly because of his references to animals, “Tyger Tyger” and all that. Not a surprising choice for a shifter, and his words had seduced me with their hints of dark and mysterious knowledge. He was deeply spiritual, and the religious underpinnings of his writing escape me, but I sometimes wondered if he was a shifter himself. He seemed to have an affinity with wild creatures, and for most of my life I believed he knew our souls.

For the longest time I’d felt as though I’d been born into his Endless Night; my life destined for eternal misery. Tragedy stalked me with the persistence of an implacable tiger: the violent death of my mother, my mistaken belief I had caused Mal’s death, the betrayal by Anton, my lover of three years, and his subsequent death at the hands of a demon of the worst sort. But then, out of nowhere, Mal had returned to me, and with him came Tommy, this divinely beautiful shifter.

I dragged my eyes away from his beautiful but tortured body, and tried to think more positive thoughts.

Never in my life had I known such happiness. That I could attract the love of two exceptional men had not been in my stars; not by a long shot. Sure, we’d been busy killing demons along the width and breadth of the entire country, but we always found time for passion, and we often joked we were “fucking like demons.” It kept us sane. I thought my life had turned around, and I’d been blessed with the poet’s blessed state of Sweet Delight.

Then, slowly at first, things began to change. Mal became distant, quiet and secretive, so that sometimes it felt like just me and Tommy, though there were three of us in the bed. His participation in our lovemaking lacked enthusiasm. Sure, his cock was hard when I sucked him, and when I climbed on top he went through the motions, but no longer with the passion I’d craved for the three years he’d been gone. It was as if he was somewhere else, thinking thoughts that Tommy and I could not share.

That widening gulf between us hurt like a claw raking through my breast.

Mal had been more and more distant in the fortnight before we’d tracked down Sheldon Hicks. Since the battle in the warehouse, I’d hardly seen Mal. He was out hunting demons, and no, I couldn’t go with him. Someone had to stay and watch Tommy.

I gazed at Tommy’s torn flesh. He’d been ripped open from neck to crotch. There’d been so much blood. The sound of my own screams, begging Mal to help him, still echoed in my dreams.

After Mal had dispatched the demon, he’d seen us, and with effortless strength, he’d scooped us up into his arms and carried us to our car. He’d driven us to Doctor Fraser, the so-called “shifter healer” who’d originally saved Tommy years ago when Mal, then a humble detective, had found him lying by the side of the road.

Doctor Fraser had patched him up this time as well, and after a week where Tommy’s life had hung in the balance, he’d let us bring him home.

That was three weeks ago.

Watching him made me think of how scared I was he would die, how alone I would be if he left me. Each moment was so precious. It mirrored the abject despair I’d experienced when I’d thought Mal was dead.

I thought about all the time we’d been together… a short six months… so many moments joined together. Like knots tied in a piece of string, one thought led to another, and inevitably turned to memories of my mother. She’d been a tortured soul, and we were always on the run from something. I was born in Louisiana, spent my infant days on a tuna boat in the Pacific, happily raised in Australia, and then returned to the United States when I was ten after Mother’s brutal murder. Apparently one of her adventures on the wrong side of the law had gone seriously wrong.

Now Mal was distant, and Tommy was so badly injured, I wanted this all to be over. I wanted to be happy again, like I’d been on the golden Australian beaches…

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Meet the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

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Oct 17

New Release Blitz: Twin Elements by Mell Eight (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Twin Elements

Author: Mell Eight

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/17/2023

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 37000

Genre: Fantasy, Royalty, twins, herbologist, conspiracy, poisons, romance, HEA

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Description

When Rhory’s identical twin, King Tycen, is poisoned, Rhory is forced to take his place to cover up the disaster. With the help of their healer, he desperately searches for a cure while keeping the kingdom running. Even so, Rhory isn’t certain he’ll be able to keep up until the arrival of Prince Maya, who is not only ready to help with his specialized knowledge of plants, but is so very distracting.

Saving Tycen is only the beginning, however, as the political intrigue that put Tycen in the healer’s wing must still be unraveled. Even with Prince Maya’s help, Rhory isn’t certain the throne, or the kingdom itself, will survive the erupting turmoil.

Excerpt

Twin Elements
Mell Eight © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
“I’ve been invited to some drinking party tonight,” Rhory said with a sigh of disgust. “Don’t they realize I want to spend my evening relaxing with a book, not drinking and schmoozing for some sort of political claptrap?”

Tycen laughed. “That’s what happens when you’re the younger brother of the king.”

“By only ten minutes,” Rhory muttered angrily. “How do I tell them to leave me alone?”

“Dearest brother, why would you ever turn down an opportunity to drink to your heart’s content?” Tycen vanished into the dressing room, but his voice was still clear. “If you won’t go, then I will.”

Tycen returned to the main room and twirled around, grinning cheekily at Rhory. He had changed out of the red and gold lightweight linen robes that marked him as king, and into the deep purple and blue that marked Rhory as honored prince. The different robes were the only visual indication that designated them as two separate people. They were completely identical otherwise.

Tycen’s wide blue eyes were shining with mischief, whereas Rhory knew his were currently cold with disdain. They both had the deep blue-black hair common among the people of their country. Tycen had pulled his into two thin braids, each running from his temple to behind his ear, which kept his hair out of his face and out of the ink of the documents he worked on every day. Rhory usually used one of the ornate, jeweled clasps Mother had left him to pull his hair back into a thick bun at the back of his head.

“You realize as long as you continue to attend these blasted parties pretending to be me, I’m going to keep getting invited?” Rhory sighed, but he was already carefully detangling the clasp from his hair and holding it out for Tycen to take.

Tycen swiftly unraveled his braids. A few quick twists had his hair up in a bun, and he jabbed the clasp through to hold it all in place.

“That’s the point, brother dear. No one ever dares invite the king to little get-togethers. It’s always formal balls or meetings. You get invited to the fun things all the time!”

Rhory couldn’t refute that, but he had to add in a reminder. “Don’t forget tomorrow is Sunsday. We have the prayer session at dawn.”

Tycen nodded. “I won’t forget. I probably won’t have gotten to sleep yet by then, but I promise I’ll be there.” He twirled one last time, grinning cheekily, before heading out the door.

Rhory sighed and tucked a loose bit of hair behind one ear. He settled back on the couch with his book, glad to have the rest of the evening to himself. Unfortunately, duty called, so he only relaxed an hour before heading to bed. Still, even snatching an hour after a long day was better than normal. Rhory was feeling relaxed and happy as he slid into bed, and he fell asleep quickly.

The good feelings were still there in the morning when the servant knocked on his door an hour before dawn. Rhory stretched, warm under his blankets, and let out a yawn. As much as he wanted to stay in bed, he knew if he didn’t get moving now, he would run out of time. He rolled out of bed and padded into the bathing room. Once he felt clean, he went into the dressing room, which was shared between his room and Tycen’s.

The suite of two rooms they used was actually the king’s private residence. Rhory occupied the queen’s room, the room their mother had once used before she and father passed when the cold-fire fever rampaged through the kingdom five years back. When Tycen had been forced to take Father’s room, he had asked if Rhory would take Mother’s. They had never been separated for very long, so Rhory had agreed. He knew one day Tycen would marry and Rhory would need to find other quarters, but for now they shared the space.

Except Tycen wasn’t in the dressing room, fumbling through the shelves, looking for a clean set of robes, still partially drunk. Rhory frowned and abandoned the purple set he had been holding, then headed through the other door and into Tycen’s bedroom.

The room was dark, but the bed was empty and neatly made. There was no sign Tycen had been back. Rhory pushed through the main door, his heart starting to thump loudly, hoping to see Tycen passed out on one of the couches. He wasn’t there.

Rhory swallowed hard. If Tycen had promised to be back in time for the morning ceremony, he would have kept that promise. He should have been back by now.

Rhory rushed to the suite’s main door, but then froze with his hand on the handle. No one could know Tycen was missing. The king vanishing would cause widespread panic, but his younger brother going missing wouldn’t be nearly as bad. Well, Rhory had pretended to be Tycen before, and he could do it now until Tycen was found.

Decided, Rhory took in, then let out two deep breaths. He smoothed his expression, and once he was certain he appeared outwardly calm, he pulled open the door.

The usual two guards standing there immediately straightened to attention.

“Have Captain Adda report to me at once. I have some concerns about the security of this morning’s ceremony.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” one of the guards said, bowing before turning and trotting off. Rhory nodded to the remaining guard before closing the door.

Captain Adda would arrive in a few minutes, which didn’t give Rhory a lot of time. He sprinted into his own bedroom and quickly tugged the sheets and blankets into place, trying to make it look like his bed was the one that had not been slept in. Then he rushed into the dressing room, where he yanked on a set of Tycen’s red robes. The bed in Tycen’s room took only a few moments to rumple. Rhory was standing in front of the mirror in the main sitting room, carefully braiding his hair, his breathing back to normal after the rush to set things up, when the knock came at the door.

“Enter!” Rhory called.

Captain Adda stepped inside. He bowed and waited.

“Captain, come in and close the door,” Rhory said. Adda obeyed. Once the door was firmly shut, Rhory continued. “My brother Rhory went out drinking last night. He was invited to the Blue Blaze Tavern by three minor nobles. The invitation is on the sideboard to your left,” Rhory added. He finished the first braid, tied it off, and turned to look at Adda directly. “Rhory has not returned, which is incredibly unusual. I need you to mount a discreet search party. I want him located and brought back to the palace before the end of the Sunsday ceremony.”

“At once, Your Majesty.” Captain Adda bowed, and when Rhory nodded, he turned and left the room.

Rhory hurried to finish getting ready. He couldn’t be late for the Sunsday ceremony, especially since he was going to be impersonating Tycen. Rhory schooled his face to peaceful blankness before he left the room, hoping the coming ceremony would help him push aside the worried churning in his stomach.

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Meet the Author

When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.

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Oct 06

Book Blitz: Cove’sTentacles by J Hali Steele (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Cove’sTentacles

Series: Blood Wet & Tears 1

Author: J Hali Steele

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: October 6, 2023

Heat Level: 5 – Erotica

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 59 pages

Genre: Erotica, Capture Fantasy, Monster Erotica, Gay, Hentai, Shapeshifters, Vampires, Dark Fantasy

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Synopsis

Warning: This is a Razor’s Edge Monster Erotica Story. Expect limited plot and character development, and lots of paranormal heat. If you’re looking for a lengthy plot driven erotic romance, this is not it!

Cove Deville knows he can’t touch alcohol without facing dire consequences. One drink thrown in his face from a hook-up gone embarrassingly wrong and he’s trapped in a large cooler and tossed into a lake. Fresh water will have to do — better than nothing. Wrong. Discovered on the lake’s sandy shore, he’s captured by a bewildering man. Cove’s life, or what’s left of it if he doesn’t find salt water fast, is about to drastically change.

Kilson Arestes can not recall the last time he was held by another. The pain of loneliness has been so great he felt as if his heart was being shredded. Those thoughts are quickly replaced with another kind of sadness when he finds an ocean dweller who should never be in fresh water crawling from his manmade lake. Little does Kils know saving the animal will alter his undead life forever.

Will these fantastic creatures’ existence be changed for better or worse?

Excerpt

Copyright ©2023 J. Hali Steele

Everything eventually dies.

Death was coming for Cove Deville today. And it was his own damn fault.

The evening had started with promise. From a table in the corner of a restaurant he often frequented, Cove had watched a small but athletic stranger climb out of his pickup truck and enter the eatery.  A treat for me. Taking a seat at the bar, the man looked around and their eyes met. There was an immediate connection. Not a mentalist by a long shot, Cove gathered they both desired a sexual escapade — a hard, fast fuck to end their evening. Looked as if the man’s day had been spent fishing, while Cove’s had been filled with… Shit, he never did anything other than walk the beach and kick up seashells he’d probably emptied himself before they drifted on shore and got smushed into the sand by beachgoers and volleyball players.

Cove was a real man-whore who preferred men who were up in age. That day, though, he’d craved companionship. He decided he could forego a handsome older gentleman for a young one with a nice ass just this once. He shamelessly flirted with the bastard until both decided to leave together. Cove never took men home, and he’d learned not to be finicky about where his hookups took place. After driving uphill along a winding dirt road that appeared not to be used much, they’d ended up in the back of his hookup’s pickup parked in a wooded area a mile or more from a steep, craggy shoreline.

Physical release would usually be followed by Cove’s return to the beach where, after dark, he’d undress and hide his clothing behind a boulder. Wading into the warm ocean water, Cove would dive out of sight. An hour or two later, rejuvenated, he’d surface, redress, and return to his apartment in Malibu.

Alone

That evening, though, Cove had gotten stupid. He allowed an argument to develop over the fact that Cove did not want to be screwed. He yearned to take the younger guy. Who knew his pretty little ass was a top? While it was not his favorite way of fucking, Cove had bottomed a handful of times in his life. But, damn, the man he’d picked up had such a pleasing round ass and Cove had spent nearly an hour imagining plundering said ass. Taking what he wanted. His selfishness had bitten Cove in the behind by way of a beer being tossed in his face.

Unfortunately, alcohol in any form or potency was deadly.

Not. A. Single. Drop.

When the fucker left to take a piss, Cove had attempted to ease the discomfort caused by the beer. He sucked the ice from around the fish in the cooler stretching the width of the truck bed. Eventually losing control, he shifted and fell all the way in. Thanked God he was able to regulate his size.

The son of a bitch hadn’t even looked for Cove when he got back. Cursing like a sailor when he looked in the cooler, he slammed the lid, jumped in the cab of the pickup and drove like a bat out of hell for what felt like miles down a bumpy dirt road. Skidding to a stop, the bastard removed the cooler and dumped the contents, including his day’s catch, into a small lake.

Fresh water! It would help flush the alcohol from Cove’s skin, but remaining in this pond for too long was still a death sentence. Robbed of the strength needed to shift, Cove knew his situation grew more dire as the sun rose, its deadly light blazing into the sky. He heard someone approach from the wooded area and cross the small strip of beach surrounding the lake. The figure looked like a man. When necessary, Cove could borrow from his octopod’s elevated sense of smell, but not this time. His animal was as stymied as Cove. Snuffling the air from his position, Cove grappled with discerning what stood glaring at him. He only knew the vision before him smelled fabulous. Fresh, clean, and…not human. Definitely not the young man from last night.

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Meet the Author

Growl and roar — it’s okay to let the beast out. — J. Hali Steele

J. Hali Steele wishes she could grow fur, wings, or fangs, so she can stay warm, fly, or just plain bite the crap out of… Well, she can’t do those things but she wishes she could!

J. Hali’s a multi-published Amazon bestselling author of Romance in Paranormal, Fantasy, and Contemporary worlds which include ReligErotica and LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters and angels collide — and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap, and a cup of coffee.

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Sep 26

New Release Blitz: Drowning in Danger by BL Jones (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Drowning in Danger

Series: Liquid Onyx, Book Three

Author: BL Jones

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/26/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 112100

Genre: Urban Fantasy, family-drama, urban fantasy, superheroes, magic/magic users, organised crime, tearjerker

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Description

Sixteen years ago, Alex Nova defied the impossible and shook the world to its core. He made children into superhumans and, in doing so, made a villain out of himself.

At age twenty, Rex Nova took the consequences of his father’s actions and used them to make himself into a superhero, so he could protect the world his father almost broke.

Unknown to him, however, are the secrets buried in his genetics. Hidden truths soaked in tainted blood.

Like his father before him, the choices Rex makes when his back is up against the wall will force him to confront things about who he really is, and what he’s willing to become to protect the people he loves.

This time, the consequences will be of his own wreaking, and the fallout will threaten everything he cares about.

Excerpt

Drowning in Danger
BK Jones © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Obsidian Blood

Mia

If I was ever going to waver in my conviction, the sight before me now is a harsh reminder of why I must commit the necessary evils of my mission.

“How old is this one?” Ian Stone, head director of Obsidian Inc., asks me.

We stand, side by side, in front of a one-way mirror that spreads from one end of the wall to the other. In the room beyond this window is a girl, well, a woman I suppose. The young woman is currently strapped to a bed: metal straps, chains, and cuffs, all titanium to hold her in place. Anything less and she might just be able to escape.

They’re always stronger near the end.

Her name is Katya Markov. She was born in Russia but moved to Canada when she was three years old to live with her aunt and uncle, after her parents were killed in a car accident. Before she was injected with Liquid Onyx, she was a quiet girl who loved rabbits, the colour green, and vanilla cake icing.

After she was injected, Katya gained the ability to move objects with her mind. Obsidian Inc. taught her how to use that power to inflict pain, to commit murder on their behalf.

Katya Markov became Agent Katya, a weapon with human skin stapled around it.

Katya was a little girl who hated the figure skating lessons her aunt made her attend, who preferred the ice hockey club her uncle took her to. Katya, the girl, liked swimming in the ocean and wanted to be a “penguin vet” when she grew up.

Agent Katya is a killer, a woman without a moral compass, who was torn away from everything that could have made her something close to human.

But none of those things are what Stone asked me.

“She’s twenty-three,” I say, careful to keep my voice measured and dispassionate.

Even after all these years, I’m wary of showing any form of emotional instability in front of this man. Ian Stone will never care how long someone has been with Obsidian Inc. His idea of loyalty is eternal servitude without error or complaint. There is no end, no final goal, just a continuous struggle to prove oneself of use, or… Well. Not.

“It seems the younger they turn, the quicker they spiral,” Stone muses, his entire demeanour as aloof as it always is. I don’t think I’ve seen more than two expressions on his face. Impassive. And outright fury. There seems to be no middle ground. Either you’re dismissed as unimportant and replaceable, or you’re noticed for all the wrong reasons.

“Perhaps,” I say, non-committal, half sure his statement wasn’t meant to draw much of a response from me.

If I was allowed to speak freely, I might tell him it’s more than likely that the Liquid Onyx OI agents are becoming mentally unstable at a faster and faster rate because of the conditions they’re being kept in.

The Liquid Onyx survivors OI have raised and trained are little better than dogs used in backroom fights. Highly skilled, for sure, but still barely more than rabid underneath the surface. Scratch at that brittle exterior of apparent detachment, and you’re likely to get severely bitten.

A lot of the OI agents and guards believe the Liquid Onyx survivors under OI’s control are broken creatures. Monsters on a leash. Pets with chokers around their throats they can yank on at any time.

I’ve seen different. No one who met Katya before, and truly saw her for who and what she is, could think her an unfeeling creature.

I see what I see. Girl. Child. Dangerous. Woman. Adult. Even more dangerous.

They all see what they want to see. Agent. Killer. Animal.

Less of a who and more of a what.

It’s no wonder that Katya has been reduced to this. Writhing around on a bed, alone in a cold, metal room, strapped down with cold, metal restraints, imprisoned in a cold, metal OI facility. Everything about her life is cold and metal and wrong.

She never should have had a life so barren of warmth and light and hope. No one should be treated with this level of inhumanity. It makes me feel sick to see it, to see the result of what my actions have caused.

I did this to her. We did. We created Liquid Onyx, and in doing so, we destroyed the life of a little girl with straw-blonde hair and two crooked front teeth and dreams of healing penguins.

We did this, Alex and me. We are the source of all this pain.

I will never forgive either of us for it.

She starts screaming again. It sounds muffled through the window. Muffled, but no less chilling for that fact.

Katya’s hands start to spasm in their restraints and there’s the sound of metal straining. A moment later her screams become far more wretched, rising to a pitch I wouldn’t have thought attainable, then petering off into fractured cries. Similar to those of an injured animal. Pitiful and grinding.

I hate to hear that sound coming out of a human being’s mouth. I don’t need to guess at the change in tone to Katya’s shouts of distress.

All the restraints seem gratuitous to me. She already has a chip embedded at the top of her spine that can be activated, as it was just now, to send an electrical shock through her body, meant to paralyse.

I’ve seen it used for other purposes. Reprimands. Torture. Even execution, in extreme circumstances.

All the Liquid Onyx OI agents are fitted with chips. It tracks them, as well as making sure they never go too far. They know what will happen to them once they’re found, and they know they will always be found.

We, everyone who works for OI, knows that. There is nowhere to hide from Obsidian Inc., not for long, anyway.

It’s why I’ve never entertained the idea of running away from them. I couldn’t risk them getting hold of me and Andy, and selfishly, I couldn’t imagine a life without my daughter.

Katya’s face is creased in anguish and fear and rage. It should be impossible for someone to feel so many powerful things at once, but I can see all that in Katya’s pale eyes. I think I see the thin veins of black creeping across her whites like the roots of a tree spreading through the underground.

“Do you believe she could be salvageable for one last mission?” Stone asks me, this time clearly expecting an answer.

I wish I could hate him. Kick and spit on him in indignant rage over what he has done, over who and what he is.

But I can’t. I can’t do those things, think those things, feel those things, because the truth is, I’m a far worse monster than he is a man.

“No.” I glance at him, keeping my expression neutral. “I’ve examined her. She’s too far gone. You know once it gets to this stage, it’s just a matter of waiting for her body to shut down, one organ at a time.”

Stone makes a low humming sound, neither agreement nor refusal to accept the reality we are faced with.

“I was hoping to get another year out of her,” he ruminates after a significant pause. “The ones before didn’t start losing their tactical ability in the field until they were at least twenty-four.” His observation suggests disappointment, but his tone does not.

Ian Stone is a practical man who has practical thoughts and believes in practical solutions.

I know he will order Katya Markov’s termination today. If he cannot use her, then he will not drain resources and risk further problems by keeping her alive.

In truth, it doesn’t matter as much as it should.

None of the Liquid Onyx survivors have made it to twenty-five mentally intact.

None of the Liquid Onyx survivors have made it to twenty-six alive.

And, whether I succeed in my mission or not, none of them ever will. Of that, I am certain.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

BL Jones is a twentysomething British author who spends all her free time reading and writing and taming her three much younger brothers. She works as a BSL interpreter in Bristol and lives with a temperamental bunny named Pepsi. She’s been writing stories since she was five, rarely sharing them with anyone except her numerous stuffed animals. BL has had a difficult journey into discovering and accepting her own queerness, and therefore believes that positive, honest, and authentic stories about queer people are very important. She hopes to contribute her own stories for people to have fun with and enjoy.

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Sep 26

New Release Blitz: The Lost Child by Thomas Grant Bruso (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Lost Child

Author: Thomas Grant Bruso

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/26/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Female, Male/Male

Length: 76700

Genre: Contemporary Thriller, Lit/genre, crime/thriller, paranormal, horror, bisexual, child abduction, reporter, deceased child, hallucinations, Halloween

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Description

Newspaper reporter Luke Sorenson has recently moved to a new town in upstate New York. Despite the change in scenery, Luke cannot run away from a brutal, harrowing past driven by the death of his only child, Emily.

Soon, Luke is propelled into a dangerous case of child abduction, an eerie reminder of losing his daughter. An eight-year-old boy named Daniel Hadley is kidnapped from his own bedroom and it is Luke, battling his own demons, who is assigned the story of the year.

As pieces of Luke’s mysterious, violent past are revealed, so are the sinister secrets to his daughter’s demise, sending Luke into a tailspin of heavy drinking and self-torment.

The search for Daniel is on, but it may be too late for everyone involved.

Excerpt

The Lost Child
Thomas Grant Bruso © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
He watches her. She is alone.

She is six, maybe seven years old. She is having a picnic in the front yard with her dolls.

The girl’s hair is the color of spun honey. Her eyes, dark brown, innocent, come alive when he hears her talking to one of her plastic dolls.

Her voice is lively, soft, and gentle.

She laughs as the man shifts his footing in the shadowy woods across from her house. A small branch snaps underfoot, the sound of his weight on the thick twig imploding like fireworks.

She looks up from grooming her doll’s hair and stares in his direction. The man creeps behind a leafy spruce tree to hide.

Two vehicles pass along the quiet suburban street. The man stares around the massive tree, watching the young girl.

The sound of her humming to her dolls makes him smile. A splinter of electricity vibrates through his rangy limbs. Something mechanical surges through his veins and up and down his body to his scraggly face.

Trembling, he reaches a gnarled hand out against the thick bark of the tree to balance himself. His head is dizzy. His legs are unsteady.

He knows this feeling. It is familiar, like the blade of a knife skimming the surface of young flesh. Then he hears the sound of scared children panting and crying in the back of his head. He sees their frightened eyes, pleading for their parents, and he smiles.

He slips back into the brush behind the birch tree.

Watching. Waiting.

A dog walker passes two feet away. He skulks back into the coiling shadows so they won’t see him.

He wipes sweat from his neck with the back of his hand.

The man’s identity is almost discovered when the sizeable black lab points its nose toward the dense foliage. The owner tugs on the dog’s leash lightly and starts down the street, around the corner; now, they are out of sight.

The man waits for a second or two until he’s sure they’re gone. He hugs the tree limb and cocks an ear to the sound of the young girl’s mother yelling at her from the brightly lit porch.

“It’s getting dark, Susie. Come inside.”

Susie.

Sweet little Susie, the cigar-smoking man muses.

Curly-haired Susie. Doll-grooming Susie.

When the time is right, he will be back.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Thomas Grant Bruso knew at an early age he wanted to be a writer. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since he was a kid.

His literary inspirations are Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Ellen Hart, Jim Grimsley, Karin Fossum, Sam J. Miller, Joyce Carol Oates, and John Connolly.

Bruso loves animals, book-reading, writing fiction, prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.

In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he was a winner for the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes book reviews for his hometown newspaper, The Press Republican.

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Sep 19

New Release Blitz: The Flying Mermaid by Eule Grey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Flying Mermaid

Series: The Volcano Chronicles, Book 1.5

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/19/2023

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 20000

Genre: Fantasy, mystical, sea lore, coming of age, artists, action/adventure, great escape, air balloon, wartime, refugees, oppression, tyranny, racism, family drama, female friendship, beloved pet

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Description

“Craw city has always been magical, at least to Luce. No boring war could ever make her love her seaside home any less. There’s the beach, where she and Adu can mess around and cause trouble, as well as the ancient songs they love to sing. Legends state that a vengeful mermaid named Sea Mother will protect the children from war. Why worry about politics and fighting? Nobody would risk the wrath of an angry sea serpent. Would they?

So why are groups of people fleeing the city, and why do Luce’s parents disappear every day to partake in mystery war work? What exactly are they doing, and why doesn’t Luce’s artist mother invite her along?

One day, Luce spies something that rocks her beliefs and changes everything. Her faith in the sea, and all she holds dear, will be sorely tested. But love is fierce, and so are sea goddesses.

This YA novella can be read as part of The Volcano Chronicles or as a stand-alone.”

Excerpt

The Flying Mermaid
Eule Grey © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Dear Craw Advisory Board,

I’ll keep the introduction and credentials brief. My name is Luce. I’m the daughter of Arker Fi, the mermaid artist. I was born in central Craw and fled ten years ago, on the day the bomb exploded. I haven’t returned. How could we, when the city’s frozen in time by Sea Mother’s curse?

I’m sure you know our history as well as I. No rivers or waterfalls will flow into Craw. Not a drop. Crops and plants don’t flourish. Houses collapse. They say soldiers guard the gates, and the streets are riddled with diseases… That’s all we know.

In my opinion, the curse is fair and just. Sea Mother warned you what would happen, but you didn’t listen.

Why am I writing? Be patient, and I’ll get to it. You might say a buzzing little bee is to blame. It sped through Mainland carrying a precious message. That gift was passed from person to person, and one day, it landed at my door.

Maybe you’ve also heard the rumour? Craw is recovering. I can hardly write without jumping up and down. Recovering, I tell you!

I didn’t believe it at first, and neither did Ma. It was too wide a leap. We did what Crawians always do in times of trouble—turned to the sea for answers.

“What do you think, fish?”

There was no reply.

“Seals? Have you heard anything?”

It seems they hadn’t. But the Fi family are rather stubborn and don’t give up easily. Towards dusk, something blew in with the scuttling turtles. Ma heard it first, and then I did. It was the essence of a whisper; a promise from far away.

Sea Mother, she shall rise.

The rebirth of Craw? She’s inviting us home? I’m not ashamed to say I cried. My city that fits like skin. I want it so much, so much. Home. Home. How difficult to write that word which wiggles and squirms like a bag of snakes. It’ll never be still.

So anyway, advisors, I’ll get to the purpose of this letter. It’s about your precious advisory board. Who’re the members? Leaders who fled, is it? Rich folk who donated money to weaponry manufacturers?

Shame on you. How dare you! What gives you the right to represent Craw without inviting—begging—Arker Fi to advise you? I’m sure I don’t need to list my mother’s achievements, but I will do, all the same.

Have you seen the mermaid statues that line the streets? And the town square that’s protected by a hundred stone women, each with more majesty and dignity than you can imagine? My mother made those, as well as thousands of mermaid dolls. When the lights of Craw dimmed, what do you think those kids reached for? Your guess is correct—Ma’s mermaids.

The last mayor declared Arker Fi a forever guardian of Craw. In recognition of her work in schools and around the city. Because of her visionary art. No filthy war can delete such honour. A board of self-appointed advisors can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You know I’m right, cheapskate though you may be.

I ask you this: Can a city be born without foundations? Can there be birth without a mother? You know the answer as well as I.

I’m moving too fast. Sorry. At least we both know where we stand.

Consider this letter an application for a role on your advisory board on behalf of my mother. I won’t apologise for my boldness or beg for our rights. I never was much good with manners.

My account is a diary. It tells of the most powerful love—that of a thirteen-year-old girl. That was ten years ago. I’m twenty-three now, so I should know. If you don’t like it, you can shove potatoes up your nose.

Oh, but we climbed inside the heart of a mermaid. The very heart, I tell you. It was colder than ice and as tough as a clam shell. I didn’t think we’d survive. But then, nothing worth having is easy. You already know this. Afterwards, we were changed. The parts of us that were already strong grew as tough as mermaid pearls. The other parts? We don’t talk about those.

This is my story.

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Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!

She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!

For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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Sep 12

New Release Blitz: Ministry of Alien Relations by Rebecca Cohen (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Ministry of Alien Relations

Series: Devlin Taylor, Earth Ambassador, Book One

Author: Rebecca Cohen

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/12/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 69800

Genre: Science Fiction, romance, explicit sex, tentacle/tail sex, aliens, interspecies, office worker, scientist, ambassador, space travel

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Description

Devlin Taylor is Head of Settlement and Relocation for the British Government’s Ministry of Alien Relations. He’s more used to helping recently arrived aliens find new homes and pay their utility bills than babysitting extraterrestrial socialites, but he’s been assigned to look after Zal Catenmir, son of the Chroalian ambassador, during their diplomatic visit to Earth.

Devlin is the perfect host and tour guide, and Zal loves the fuzziness of human males, while Devlin can’t seem to get enough of Zal’s scales and tail. But with only two weeks together before Zal leaves, they need to make the most of their time.

Zal was just out for a bit of fun, trying to relive his wilder youth after a break-up, but Devlin is wonderful and they both wish they could find a way to stay together. The Earth Ambassador Programme is under development, but it doesn’t look likely Devlin will get the job, and the lovers may need to say their goodbyes forever.

Excerpt

Ministry of Alien Relations
Rebecca Cohen © 2023
All Rights Reserved

In Devlin Taylor’s opinion, the humble gingernut biscuit was underrated in its ability to restore peace and order to the busy offices of the Ministry. Devlin picked up the last of the sweet miracle workers from the biscuit tin and dunked it into his tea, slopping liquid over the edge of his mug and across the words Keep Calm and Remember Your Th’lian. He clutched the mug tightly. As the sole survivor of the batch created to mark the Th’lian delegation’s successful visit to Earth three summers ago, Devlin had to guard it possessively against potential kidnapping attempts from the office administrator, Marjorie, and her nefarious army of devious interns.

He ate the biscuit whole and moaned happily, enjoying the small respite from the chaos waiting for him. He sighed and picked a manila wallet from the top of the pile on his desk and opened it. Devlin scoffed at the idea of a paperless office. In his experience, the Ministry still wanted most things in dead tree format, but now he had to make electronic copies in addition, in the vain hope the computer system wouldn’t lose them. It was typical of the bureaucracy that came with working for the British Government’s Civil Service and strangely comforting most days.

When he’d been recruited by the Ministry straight out of Oxford, his naivety made him think he’d relish seeing excitement and danger. He’d spent evenings in high-end bars, sipping cocktails with beautiful people, had been on wild chases across continents, and survived encounters with some truly frightening individuals. But truth be known, he was far happier now, sorting out housing and mundane day-to-day issues for those that ended up directed to his department, far from home and needing guidance.

“Oh, you’ve had the last gingernut.”

Devlin looked up to see Marjorie staring into the empty biscuit tin. Her bad perm and miserable pout made her look much older than her mid-forties, as did her unfortunate choice of baggy cardigan and tweed skirt.

The door of the office swung open and Clive slunk in, a coffee in hand and a mouth full of doughnut. By the dark circles under his eyes and his tired expression, Devlin suspected that Clive’s latest case had resulted in another late night, if he’d got to bed at all.

“Afternoon, Clive. Everything okay?” he asked.

Clive waved but didn’t say anything. He drained the paper cup of coffee and sank into his desk chair without taking off his coat.

Devlin chuckled. “That bad?”

Clive exhaled loudly. “I swear she’s nocturnal—and can metabolize alcohol straight to pure energy.”

“Hmm, the notes did say that her species can go several days without sleeping.”

Clive rubbed his eyes. “She’s supposed to get tired though, and last night she got wilder and wilder. I had to stop her from stripping off and dancing on the table at the last club. I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re twenty-four. Hardly in your dotage.”

“Says Mr Nine-to-Five-at-Thirty Taylor,” groused Clive, resting his head on his crossed arms on the desk in front of them.

“None of us work nine to five, Clive. I still do late nights and early mornings when I’m needed. Let’s not forget, last week I had to balance a new arrival’s hyper-metabolism with an allergy to concrete. When I was promoted to Head of Department, I was told I could reduce my amount of fieldwork to concentrate on looking after you lot and untangling the red tape, so less of the cheek.”

Clive muttered something about promotion not coming soon enough, and Devlin turned to his computer, raising his eyebrows at Marjorie who smirked in response. “I’ll go and see if I can track down some more biscuits,” she said.

“Good idea. I’ve a post-lunch sugar slump building.” Another biscuit would do the trick, or at least mask the lingering remnants of the canteen’s not completely successful attempt at moussaka. “How about a chocolate digestive?”

Marjorie snorted as she walked away. “Unlikely, since you polished off the last packet.”

With the school summer holidays in mid-swing, the office was quieter than usual. Devlin looked over to ask Wendy a question about the new expenses policy and, at the sight of her empty desk, remembered that she was camping somewhere in Wales with her two children and her mother-in-law. Trevor and Simon were also missing, and he couldn’t remember approving their leave, but their absence usually improved office efficiency. Marjorie returned holding aloft a packet of chocolate biscuits.

“Where’s the terrible twosome?” he asked, opening the biscuits and talking to a couple.

“Oh, Trev’s called in sick—he reckons he caught something from his last arrival. Says he’s got a blue rash in delicate places. And Si’s out on a visit for a new potential housing supplier.”

The telephone on his desk rang and, smiling apologetically at Marjorie, Devlin answered it. “Devlin Taylor.”

“Ah, Mr Taylor,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Amanda Foutaine from Detection Monitoring.”

Devlin groaned. “What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Taylor, but the automated communication recognition system has just flagged an issue. It appears one of yours has got themselves processed via the normal channels and has been dealt with by Immigration at the Home Office.”

“Oh shit! Which one?”

“Marcus Andrati.”

“I’m on my way.” He replaced the receiver without waiting for further information and jumped to his feet, grabbing a folder from the pile on his desk.

“Can you arrange a greeting room for Case 4412?” he said, handing the folder to Marjorie. “Executive level—we have a bit of an issue.”

“What’s gone wrong?” asked Marjorie, looking at the case file.

“Not sure. I’ll fill you in as soon as I know.”

Trusting Marjorie would do all she could in as short a time as possible, Devlin ran out of the office.

He skidded around the corner of the corridor, his reflexes the only reason he managed not to send a colleague crashing to the floor, but the stack of papers she was carrying was not so lucky. Devlin called out an apology over his shoulder. He couldn’t stop to help her. Time was of the essence, and he needed to get over to the main immigration building without delay if he had any hope of averting a major incident. He didn’t bother with the elevator, instead he took the stairs, his plum tie flying behind him and his shoes slipping on the polished floors as he ran as fast as he dared, not wanting to add a personal injury to the looming disaster that was pending if he didn’t get there in time.

The Ministry’s offices were linked to those of Immigration, and Devlin, for once, thanked the original architect’s forward thinking as he swiped his access card to gain entrance to the basement. The strip lighting glared as it bounced off white walls, making Devlin squint to ward off the headache building behind his right eye. He hated it down here, so much so that when he needed something from the archive housed behind several of the closed doors, he usually bribed Marjorie or an intern with the promises of a large slice of strawberry gâteau to retrieve anything he needed. But this was the quickest route, and that was all that mattered now.

Pushing open the final door at the end of the corridor, Devlin emerged into a stairwell and took the spiral staircase two steps at a time. He reached the top, five flights later, panting slightly. A few deep breaths and a promise to himself to beef up his gym routine, which meant starting to go again, and Devlin straightened his tie and tugged down his suit jacket.

He entered a small lobby and walked over to a black panel situated to the side of another door, and after waving his access card across it, an image of a corridor appeared on the screen. Happy to see the coast was clear, Devlin waved his card again and the door opened into the corridor. The door slid shut behind him, merging back into the décor so any passers-by would have no idea it was there.

With no time to dawdle, he was off again but slower now so he could check who was in the glass-fronted interview rooms. Three doors down, he spotted a man with a hooked nose and high forehead matching the photograph in the file. He also recognised the woman opposite as Mrs Barnes, a senior investigator whom he’d had dealings with before, although her understanding of those dealings had been very different from their reality. By the incredulous expression on her face, it was evident she was having trouble believing what Mr Andrati was saying. Unsurprising, as no doubt she thought her interviewee had read far too many science-fiction novels, and they’d affected his mental capacity.

Devlin knocked on the door but didn’t wait to be invited in. Mrs Barnes glowered at the interruption.

“Do you mind, Mr Stevens?” said Mrs Barnes. “I happen to be conducting an interview.”

Devlin was careful not to react inappropriately to the fake name he went by when dealing with others not in his department. “Yes, I can see that—it’s just Mr Andrati is supposed to be in Sector Seven.”

He raised an eyebrow at Mrs Barnes, knowing full well she would understand the connotation of the code word he’d had put in place for such eventualities. This wasn’t the first time they had a visitor end up in the wrong place, and he doubted, with Ministry’s cumbersome IT systems, it would be the last.

Her eyes widened. “Well, that explains a number of things.”

“I’ll just take him with me.”

“Won’t you need the medical team? Perhaps security? I mean…if he were to get violent,” Mrs Barnes said, eyeing Mr Andrati with concern.

“No need. Mr Andrati is well known to Sector Seven.”

Devlin smiled warmly at Mr Andrati. “If you’d be so kind as to accompany me, Mr Andrati. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Devlin held the door open and ushered the confused man out of the interview room. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my tardiness; it appears you were directed to the wrong building and therefore the wrong Ministry. The different sections don’t exactly share information, but I received a message that your form had been scanned incorrectly, and you’d been sent over here, so I came as fast as I could.”

“I…” Mr Andrati began but quickly ran out of words.

“Also, I’m not really Mr Stevens—that’s just for dealing with this lot. They process human immigration into the United Kingdom.” He extended his hand in welcome, realising Mr Andrati hadn’t understood a word he’d said. “Devlin Taylor, Head of Settlement and Relocation for the Ministry of Alien Relations, at your service.”

The relief was clear on Mr Andrati’s face as he grabbed Devlin’s hand and shook it firmly. “Thank Klaxia! I was beginning to think this had all been a terrible mistake.”

“If you’d be so kind as to follow me.”

“To Sector Seven?”

“No, that’s something else I lied about to Mrs Barnes,” Devlin said with a grin. “Sector Seven is code for an escaped patient from a mental health facility. It’s surprising how useful that ruse is.”

Halfway down the corridor, Devlin stopped and waved his pass across a poster of the local safety rules. The sensor beeped, the once-hidden doors slid open to reveal an elevator, and he led Mr Andrati inside before pressing the button to be taken to floor E. Moments later, he was showing Mr Andrati into a set of rooms where the lights were far less harsh than the normal office ones, so Devlin knew they’d be gentler on Mr Andrati’s eyes, and the ambient temperature was slightly cooler, much more like that of Mr Andrati’s home city. Comfortable armchairs were arranged in a cluster around a low table, upon which sat a selection of foodstuffs that wouldn’t be found in a standard London supermarket or even a Kensington high-end deli.

“Welcome to Earth, Marcus Andrati. On behalf of His Majesty’s Government, I wish you a long and pleasant stay. Feel free to make yourself comfortable. I imagine you’re dying to get out of that skin.”

Devlin smiled politely as Mr Andrati shed his clothes, dropping each piece to the floor. Once naked, he rested his right hand at the hollow of his throat and drummed his fingers against his collarbone. A rose-coloured line appeared through the centre of his forehead, running south, down his face and chest before stopping at his groin. The scar-like join split open and Mr Andrati groaned in relief as he pulled away the skin suit. Devlin watched as Mr Andrati’s naturally purple, scaly skin appeared, covered by the crisscross markings of his tribe. There had been a time when he’d been awestruck at the first sight of an alien in their true form, but apart from the rare occasion when an alien was like nothing he’d seen before, he’d lost the sense of wonder it had once brought with it. Intricate patterns adorned Mr Andrati’s cheeks; they ran down his neck and across his shoulders in a mosaic of circular tattoos. He rubbed his hands across his exposed belly, lazily scratching at a patch of dry skin that flaked off and drifted to the floor.

Reaching out to the food that had been provided, Mr Andrati selected a bright orange cube and grinned. “Thank you, Mr Taylor. I’m very happy to be here.”

Devlin glanced around the room, marvelling at how Marjorie had managed another of her minor miracles to make sure everything was ready for their new guest, especially since he’d not arrived via the normal channels.

“Please make yourself comfortable. Your day-to-day liaison will be with you in a moment, then we’ll get you settled into your temporary accommodation and help you find your feet.”

Mr Andrati flopped into a chair, his body rippling on impact. He let out a contented sigh as he popped another orange cube into his mouth and put his feet on the table. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Rebecca Cohen spends her days dreaming of living in a Tudor manor house, or a Georgian mansion. Alas, the closest she comes to this is through her characters in her historical romance novels. She also dreams of intergalactic adventures and fantasy realms, but because she’s not yet got her space or dimensional travel plans finalised, she lives happily in leafy Hertfordshire, England, with her husband and young son. She can often be found with a pen in one hand and sloe gin with lemon tonic in the other.

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