Sep 28

New Release Blitz: Jack Long and the Demon’s Deal by L.J. Hamlin (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Jack Long and the Demon’s Deal

Author: L.J. Hamlin

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/17/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 39800

Genre: Paranormal, Romance, paranormal, family-drama, gay, nonbinary, demon, angel, demonic pact, magic, bartender, musician, PTSD

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Description

“Jack Long owes everything to his older brother, so when his brother has to give up one dream to protect another, Jack steps in. He doesn’t have much, but a friend’s inspiration has Jack taking a huge leap of faith and doing something he never thought he’d do–a ritual.

During the ritual in a graveyard, Jack ends up with far more than just the help he came for.

With a demon for a house guest, he has no idea what to expect, especially because this demon is hotter than hell.”

Excerpt

Jack Long and the Demon’s Deal
L.J. Hamlin © 2024
All Rights Reserved

The twang of the guitar marked the end of the set, and Jack had a beer waiting behind the small backwoods Texas bar for his brother Kris.

“Beer?” Kris asked, leaning heavily against the other side of the bar. He looked bone weary, deep lines around his eyes. Jack was worried that working three jobs was going to run his brother into the grave early, something he’d been deathly afraid of happening from the day he was fourteen and their parents had passed away in an accident.

“You seem a little off tonight.” Jack passed over the cold bottle. It was a local brew.

“Show wasn’t good?” Kris asked, worry showing as Jack picked up a glass to clean. The bar was quiet enough that they could talk. Most people were on the main floor and were still dancing, even though the music had switched from the band to a CD.

“No, you sounded great. I just know you, Kris. You were tense.” Jack was pretty close to his older brother, a man who’d been like a father to him. He could read him fairly well, no matter how much Kris tried to hide his worries.

“I might have to give up the band,” Kris blurted out, and Jack was shocked. He hadn’t been expecting that. His brother loved playing with his laid-back country band.

“Why?” Jack asked.

“Cherry is pregnant. We’ll need more money. I need to find one job that pays well enough to support us, even when she can’t work. I just can’t see the band making enough money for me to justify the time for practicing and performing.”

Jack did his best to hide his shock. “Congratulations, but I thought Cherry couldn’t have kids?”

Kris and Cherry were high-school sweethearts and had married a couple years ago. Jack loved his sister-in-law; they were close, and she’d told him herself about her health issues.

“That’s what her old doctor told her, but she’s at three months now. I waited to tell you, but her new doc says she might need bed rest for some of the pregnancy. Her blood pressure is low and a bunch of stuff I don’t understand, but God, Jack, we want this baby. I’ll pay every doctor’s bill it takes to keep my kid and Cherry safe and happy. I’ll find a way. I can’t lose either of them.” Kris looked like the world was weighing on his shoulders yet again. He hadn’t had an easy life. He deserved a break, and Jack wished he could give him one, but he was just a bartender in a shitty bar. He had no money to spare.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked anyway.

“Win the lottery? Don’t stress about it though, kid. It’s not your job to take care of me.” Kris waved away his offer of help.

“You’re my brother. Cherry is like my sister, and that baby she’s carrying is family. If I can help, I will. I’ll get a second job, help you out,” Jack offered, meaning every word.

“I appreciate it, Jack, but you need to take care of you first. Working too much is no good for you. I don’t want you burning out again. Look, we’re due back on. We’ll talk about it more some other time.” Kris took a swallow of his beer, then turned and left before Jack could argue.

Kris got back up on the small stage with the rest of his band. The CD stopped, and Kris strapped his guitar on and took the mic. He was just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a slight beer belly, and a handsome sort of face. He kept his blond hair shaved, a habit from his short time in the army. Jack looked a lot like his brother, except he was a good few inches shorter, with a slimmer frame. Where Kris’s hair was cropped close, Jack let his grow long, golden blond down to his shoulders.

Kris looked at home on stage, dancing lightly in time with the music, crooning his own lyrics and a few covers. He was talented, with an excellent voice and good with the guitar, but he’d never had a break. Jack couldn’t imagine ever getting on that stage himself. He would fall apart, he was sure. Though both he and Kris had been diagnosed with PTSD for different reasons, it didn’t affect them in the same way. Kris was far more confident—at least he was when it came to music. He could be useless at small talk.

“Hey, spaceman, you with me?” a voice called, and Jack shook himself out of his hyper focus on his brother and realized he had a friend at the bar.

Kim Joy stood out in a redneck bar, not just because of their mixed heritage, making them the only Asian in a room full of white people. It was their clothes, their long black skirt and corset, the blue streaks in their black hair, the dramatic eye makeup and dark lipstick, the pentagram on a cord around their neck.

Hazelwood Creek didn’t have many half Chinese, goth, nonbinary femme witches. In fact, it only had Kim Joy, and their little shop had caused quite the stir. Jack personally loved them. They were snarky and sweet, whip smart. And he was lucky enough to call them a friend.

“Sorry, Kim. What would you like to drink?” Jack asked.

“Whisky sour, and I may have overheard a little. Congratulations on becoming an uncle.” Kim Joy smiled, their bright-red lipstick shiny even in the dim bar light.

Jack prepared Kim’s drink. “Know any spells to bring in wealth?”

“None that’ll be what you need, but I do have a suggestion. It’s not something to be taken on lightly though.” Kim took their whisky sour and swirled the plastic stirrer through the liquid. They looked very serious and kept their voice low.

“One second.” Jack had to leave to serve someone quickly, but Kim was still waiting for him when he was finished.

“I was never much of a believer, not before I knew you, so shoot. What is it that you think I should try?” Jack trusted them. If anyone was a real mystic, it was Kim Joy.

“Your life needs more balance, right?” Kim asked seriously.

“I guess my family could use a little more light. This baby is the first miracle in a while, but I’m scared giving up music will kill part of Kris,” Jack admitted.

Kim nodded. “You need to summon a balance demon and make a deal.”

“A balance demon?” Jack was a bit in over his head. He’d seen Kim Joy do small things: blessings that charged the air, simple healings. He’d started lighting the candles they suggested and keeping crystals, but demons? He didn’t even know those were real.

“It’s not for the faint of heart. You have to be willing to make whatever deal is offered. I’ve talked with demons before, and word is, balance demons are the least dark, but still far from light. They can be trusted though, not like tricksters. Their word is their bond,” Kim Joy explained in hushed tones.

“How do I summon one?” Jack asked, out of his depth but willing to try just about anything.

“You need to go to a deconsecrated church ground, like the one on Bishops Hill, in the hour before dawn. Knock three times on the door and say ‘I seek balance,’ then light a candle and wait for it to go out. When it does, the demon will appear.” Kim Joy described the process as if it were simple.

“I get off close to dawn. I could go tonight, but I don’t have a candle in my car.” Jack wanted to act soon. If this failed, which he was almost certain it would, he still needed time to find a way to help Kris.

“I have some in my bag. A white candle would be best.” Kim Joy patted their colorful large bag.

“Is this something an amateur should mess with alone?” Jack wanted to be sure. On Kim’s advice, he’d warded his apartment against evil, little things like that, but summoning a demon was leaping forward about a dozen steps in the witch path.

“Most people I would advise against any dealings with demons, but Jack, you have the purest spirit I have ever encountered, and that will work in your favor. And like I have told you before, you could be a very powerful witch with practice.” Kim Joy’s eyes shone in the dim bar light. Anyone else standing before him, apart from maybe Kris and Cherry, he would have assumed they were trying to trick him somehow, that there was some kind of gain in it for them. But Kim Joy was made of goodness, and Jack trusted them.

“Can I borrow a candle, please?” he asked, mind made up.

“Of course. Here, take it now. I’m not staying much longer. One more quick dance and home for me. I need to charge some moon water. You’re lucky it’s a full moon. The veil is thinner tonight,” Kim Joy said brightly as they opened their bag and passed over a large tea light.

“Do you have a ride home?” Jack asked, worried about them getting home safely.

“A circle member is coming to pick me up, a trusted friend. Don’t you worry, Jack Long. Besides, you should know by now a person would be a fool to cross a witch.” Kim Joy flashed him a wicked smile, reading his concern easily, as they always did.

“Just because I know you can defend yourself from a lot doesn’t mean I want you put in a situation where you have to do so,” Jack told them, firmly putting the candle into his loose work pants pocket.

Kim Joy grinned. “You’re a doll, Jack, but I’m fine. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.” Jack patted his pocket. Kim Joy took their drink to go dance, and Jack focused on the rest of his shift.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

LJ Is a disabled queer writer in her late twenties, she’s been writing for many years and loves to share her stories she’s never without a few projects on the go and writes as much as her body allows. She is a lover of animals which often shows in her books and her social media.

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One lucky winner will receive a $50.00 NineStar Press Gift Code!

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Sep 27

New Release Blitz: Eternal by Mychael Black (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Author: Mychael Black

Cover Art: Bryan Keller

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense

Themes: Gay, Rock Star Romance, Vampires

Series: Fragile Web (#2)

Multiverse: Blood & Fire (#4)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 71

Description

Sam McIntosh knows he doesn’t need to be in the closet with his friends, but his family is another matter entirely. He keeps his sex life under wraps and never lets on to anyone that he enjoys any gender. So far, that’s worked just fine — until his father hires a new guy to work on the family farm.

Cole England has far more secrets than the average man, the least of which is his vampiric nature. He’s on the run from hunters sent by his father, and they are closing in on him. The last thing he needs is to fall for the son of the humans who hired him on their farm.

Between Sam’s bigoted family and Cole’s hunters, it’ll be a miracle if they can manage to explore the blazing attraction neither of them can deny.

Excerpt

Eternal (Fragile Web 2)
Mychael Black
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Mychael Black

“Samuel!”

Sam shut his car door and forced himself to smile when his mother approached. “Hey, Mom.”

“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up,” she chattered as they headed for the house. “Your father hired a young man to help out for the next few months since you don’t come around as much anymore.”

Sam ignored the attempt to make him feel guilty. At this point, he was used to it. “Good. Guess I should meet him if he’s gonna be around.”

“His name is — oh! There he is.”

Sam looked in the direction his mother waved. The closer their new farmhand got, the more Sam wanted to go the other direction before his interest became very apparent.

Tall. Tan. Long, golden blond hair. Dark blue eyes drew Sam in and wouldn’t let go.

“Morning, ma’am,” the hunk said. He met Sam’s gaze and held out his hand. “Cole England.”

Sam mentally kicked his brain into gear and shook the man’s hand. “Sam McIntosh. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Cole turned his attention to Sam’s mother, releasing Sam from the otherworldly spell. “Mr. McIntosh said you had an order for me to pick up at the co-op.”

“Oh, yes.” Sam’s mother tugged a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to Cole. “Samuel, go with him. I’m sure he’ll need the help.”

Before Sam could argue, she hurried off to the house where his father stood at the door. Sam sighed and turned back to Cole.

“She always like that — constantly on the move?”

“Worse, usually,” Sam said. “Guess we should head out.”

They went to the garage, and Sam grabbed the truck keys off a ring on the wall. He got in and waited until Cole buckled before backing out.

“She mentioned you but didn’t say much,” Cole said after a few minutes of silence. “You live in the city?”

“Yeah, my band plays all over Atlanta, so we figured it made sense to live in the area. Otherwise, I wouldn’t. Too damn crowded.”

“What kind of band?”

“Gothic metal,” Sam said. “My parents do not approve. What about you? You got family here?”

Cole started to answer, then stopped. He stared out the passenger window. “None to speak of,” he said finally. “I, uh, I’ve been traveling a good bit. Came into town a few days ago and found work with your folks.”

Sam nodded. “They aren’t giving you too much shit, are they? They can be… well, close-minded is putting it nicely.”

“Nah. I keep to myself.”

Sam wanted to ask how the hell Cole even got the job. His parents weren’t the types to just hire someone without all the proper vetting, references, and the like. He glanced over at Cole. The man still watched the land go by, as if he was lost in thought.

“Word of warning,” Sam said as he turned onto the road leading to the co-op. “My mom has a thing against redheads, so make sure any chicks you bring back aren’t reds.”

Cole chuckled but didn’t look at him. “Noted, but not an issue. I prefer my guys with dark hair.”

Sam nearly missed the turn into the parking lot. Shit.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook.

He’s an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants.

Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

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Sep 24

New Release Blitz: Ex by Alicia Thompson (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Ex

Author: Alicia Thompson

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/24/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Female, Female/Female

Length: 94200

Genre: Paranormal, Crime/thriller, paranormal, family-drama, police detective, murder, ghost, Australia, North London, Stockport, drag queen

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Description

In 2011, Toby Soames dies from a freak accident on Hampstead Heath; Charlie Falk simply disappears. Two years later, Australian Adele Soames returns to London to be nearer her son and the places he loved. She is joined in her pilgrimages to the heath by Charlie. Charlie tells her things; unnerving things about his last day alive.

Enter DS Xandra Bentley, a member of Adele’s grief support group at St Bart’s. Xandra has worked on a number of cold cases of missing boys in the area and Adele’s information reignites her interest. As new evidence comes to light, Adele has the creeping dread that she is bringing danger closer to home.

Excerpt

Ex
Alicia Thompson © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

Exigent
Def. Pressing, demanding.

November 2011

One minute Toby is downing a glass of milk at the island bar while she prepares dinner, the next he is flat on the floor. Adele turns just in time to see her son’s eyes roll back in his head, after he jumped off his stool to demonstrate something from his game.

Her spoon clatters on the floor tiles as she runs to her son. She crashes to his side, her fingers at his neck, her ear to his mouth. Nothing. Her brain goes cold and blank as she swiftly arranges his body and commences CPR, her hands pumping in time to her mind chanting No!…no!…no!

As she goes through the frantic process of trying to revive her son, her glances pinball from one surface to another around the room. Where the hell is her phone? Leaving her son to hunt for it is unthinkable.

Tears of despair run down her cheeks as her efforts produce no response. After what seems like hours, her phone rings. It’s a few feet away just above her head on the buffet table. Clutching at it, she puts it on speaker and slams it on the floor so her hands can fly back to her son.

“—Adele? Are you—”

“Roof! Help me! Call an ambulance. To the house. It’s Toby!”

Chapter One

X Marks the Spot
Def. Ground zero

January 2014

She didn’t want to go, but she went anyway. It was like falling into a rhythm. She locked the door behind her and walked to the end of the street. Brushing past wet rose bushes in a neighbour’s garden on the corner, she walked downhill to South End Green where the shops started, putting one foot in front of the other on the greasy, rained-on pavement.

She averted her eyes from the mothers hurrying along with uniformed children taking them to appointments or for shopping; she plunged her hands deeper into the pockets of her trench coat, focusing on where she walked and the whooshing of passing cars. A melee of food smells assailed her as she ran the gauntlet of the restaurants and takeaway shops. The trip back from the park had always been fraught, with her hungry son wanting her to give in to grease for dinner, not to mention his favourite red velvet cheesecake at Dominique’s. Fish and vinegar smells blended into hot fugs of curry, then segued back into raw fish and seaweed to fried fumy noodles. Already there were mothers at counters with children in tow. But not her. Not today. Not any more.

At the train station, she crossed the road. The street turned uphill, and progress was slow. She had let herself go these last few years living in Australia, even without the excuses of less daylight hours and the higher cost of healthy food.

After passing the car park, she turned up an unmarked entry point into the Heath. She paused and took a deep breath of trees and wet grass, partly to cleanse herself of the polluting streets, but also as if she was entering Narnia and all would be the same as she had left it. The pebbles on the path crunched underfoot and the odd drop of water leaked from the networks of naked branches to hit her glasses or run down the back of her neck.

As she left the path and staggered up a grassy bank, the view opened up and she was there. From her vantage point, she gazed down over an expanse of playing fields backed by thick woods. And there, as she had expected, was an after-school soccer game in progress, small figures running back and forth in bright colours, a few parents on the sidelines.

She had always preferred to watch from the raised bank. Having a redheaded son meant she could easily follow his game, and there was a bench. Her bench.

She walked over to the bin nearby and extracted a discarded newspaper. She crumpled a few sheets and wiped the remaining rainwater off the slats of the bench. She settled down, tucked loose strands of hair back behind her ears, and burrowed her cold hands into her pockets. She could pretend for a little while, at least.

There were no redheaded children in this game—although she looked, of course she looked—which was probably just as well, and time passed as she watched, but didn’t see, the small figures running back and forth, yells and whistles drifting up, providing a disembodied soundtrack to her thoughts.

Some time must have passed when she felt the bench give and vibrate, signalling that she had company. She glanced sideways, not without annoyance, to see a young boy grinning at her as he rustled a paper bag on his lap. Freckles littered his nose and cheeks, and his thin hair fell in shoelace strands over his forehead. He produced a speckled banana from his bag and proceeded to peel it.

“Are you here to watch the game?”

Momentarily distracted by his bony knees and thin bare legs, one wrinkled grey sock around his ankle, the other halfway up his calf, as he banged his school shoes against the bar underneath the bench, she wondered if he was cold. She looked back at his face, watching him stuff banana into his mouth.

“Yes. Yes, I thought I would. Just for a bit.”

He nodded. He had the unpleasant habit of talking with his mouth full, and through the banana and the gap in his front teeth, she saw as well as heard him say, “I’m Charlie Falk.”

His forwardness made her smile. “Well, I’m Mrs Soames.”

Charlie clucked his tongue and grinned. “Yes, I know. You’re Toby’s mum.”

Her heart lurched and suddenly, he seemed different to her: not a cheeky half-urchin invading her peace, but a window onto something…something…

He was still banging his feet in a rhythm on the bench rung, a thrumming beat and vibration that now seemed to portend that something. She swallowed, trying to release the sudden tightness in her throat.

“You—you knew Toby?”

He nodded vigorously, chewing his last gob of mushy fruit as he put the skin in the bag and screwed it up into a ball. “We played football together.”

“Oh…I see.” It was hard to believe this scrawny child was the same age Toby would have been now. Her son had been big for his age, true, but more than two years on, he would have been almost twelve now. She gazed out over the playing field, vaguely aware of little moving figures, seeing only her redheaded son dashing around, kicking the ball. He had loved soccer—football, she mentally corrected herself. He was always scolding her for that.

“Mrs Soames?”

She jerked her head back in Charlie’s direction.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She fossicked in her coat for a tissue. She removed her glasses and dabbed at her cheeks. “It just makes me sad coming here. Happy and sad at the same time, if that makes sense. It makes me remember things.” She stood up, feeling the cold and the hardness of the bench, wanting to be home in the warm.

Charlie got up as well, walked over to the bin, and lobbed in his scrunched-up ball. He turned to look back at her, his face suddenly serious and wise. “It’s good to remember things.” He zipped up his jacket. “Goodbye, Mrs Soames. Maybe see you again.”

She half lifted her hand as he turned and walked off down the slope, round a clump of bushes, and out of sight. Walking back down the slope to the dirt path, she marvelled at all the loose threads that had pulled her back to this knotty place. Penelope must start over and weave up the unravelled mess. Again.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Alicia Thompson grew up on a farm in country NSW. She has a Masters in Creative Writing from UTS along with some financial and accounting qualifications. She has worked as a bookkeeper, photographer, editor, adventure tour leader in the Middle East and China, business analyst, writing teacher and general herder of cats. Her published work includes numerous book reviews, travel articles, and short stories. She lives and works in Sydney. More can be found on her website www.aliciathompson.com.au.

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Sep 17

New Release Blitz: The Anger Chronicles by Jessie Preisendorfer (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Anger Chronicles

Series: The Anger Chronicles, Book One

Author: Jessie Preisendorfer

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/17/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 76800

Genre: Contemporary Young Adult, contemporary, lit/genre fiction, YA, F/F, middle school, foster kids, family dynamics, mean girls, anger management

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Description

Shay, fourteen and queer, just got placed with her fifth foster family in three years. Of course, she’s always angry or about to be, who wouldn’t be? This latest foster family, a rabbi, an accountant, eight-year-old twins, and a big black cat offer Shay another chance at being part of a family.

Shay is the new kid at school for the third time in one year, which is bad enough, but being in eighth grade just complicates things, especially when Shay develops a crush on the cute girl who runs the art club. As much as she tries to stay above the school drama, Shay is sucked into it after she makes yet another anger-fueled bad decision that gets caught on video and goes viral. One bad decision essentially ruins her school life and a budding relationship. It jeopardizes Shay’s placement with the Morgensterns just when they’re finally getting closer.

When Shay gets an apology letter from her estranged father, recently released from prison, she realizes she needs to make a choice. Should she stay with the Morgensterns, or should she give her father another chance? Will her anger issues continue to sabotage any chance at stability?

Excerpt

The Anger Chronicles
Jessie Preisendorfer © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Things that suck about being a foster kid (incomplete)

Changing schools
Being perpetually behind in school (see #1)
Not knowing the rules and breaking them anyway
Being the “outsider-est” outsider everywhere, even at home
Having to pretend to like everyone in the new family

All of the above happened to me this past year. Three times. There was more that happened to me this year. I was placed with three different foster families, went to three new schools, ran away from one super shitty caseworker (twice), met some stereotypical mean girls, and had a starring role in one viral video that ruined my life.

Things didn’t completely suck 100 percent for once in my shitty life, when, by good luck, which I never had, I met the Morgensterns. (You should know that I don’t believe in luck. I don’t know how else to explain that my placements usually suck, but this one doesn’t. I’m partially at fault for my bad placements—I have “anger issues,” according to my social worker, Rhonda the Craptastic, and I make pretty bad choices, if I’m being completely honest.)

One more thing. I almost died from the smell of bacon drifting into my room. Absolutely starving, I started down the stairs to find the bacon in my brand-new placement and tripped over a big black cat on the landing. Grabbing the railing to prevent plunging to my death, I stopped and sat with this huge cat next to me, staring at me. I tried to remember when I had eaten last—I guessed Thursday. And today was Saturday? Maybe?

I couldn’t stop thinking about the peanut butter sandwich I’d eaten under the train tracks. This was how much of an idiot I was. I could have taken the whole loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, but no, I packed one whole sandwich to sneak out of my last foster house. Not even an apple or anything. Idiot. (You should know that I’m not an idiot when it comes to school. I’m okay at school, when I go to school. I just “lack common sense,” according to Rhonda the Craptastic, who can rot in hell.)

Happy family sounds rose up from downstairs. That made me so angry I forgot about being hungry for, like, a minute. I wasn’t angry at the family sounds or the family. It wasn’t their fault my shitty social worker called them at midnight last night to come pick me up. I was just angry in general. I didn’t even know why. (You should also know I’m usually angry.) Sometimes, it got my attention, like now—it was there, right below my skin. Just as quickly, I only felt hungry again; the anger had slipped back beneath the surface. I heard a door open behind me.

“I hope you’re hungry. Mrs. Morgenstern always makes a nice breakfast on weekends. I hope Spock didn’t bother you. He doesn’t usually like people. He’s not as hefty as he seems. He’s under tall.” Mr. Morgenstern laughed at his own corny joke as he made his way down the stairs, stepping carefully around Spock, the huge black cat.

I remembered Mr. Morgenstern driving home. He could barely see over the steering wheel. Sitting on the stairs, I thought, He’s under tall too.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Here comes the pep talk. But he simply said, “Come on in when you’re ready. I’ll save you some bacon.”

I was so hungry. So hungry. But I was sitting on the stairs in another new house. With a new family. And new rules. And eventually, new drama. Then a new new family. A burst of laughter came from the kitchen. Suddenly, I was more tired than hungry. So tired. Too tired to even be angry. I went back upstairs to the room on the third floor and crawled back into bed.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Jessie has been performing comedy in her spare time for over twenty-five years, which definitely comes in handy during the day in her job as a high school teacher. She grew up in the Poconos, in a house in the woods on a lake, with very little parental oversight. It was even more dangerous than it sounds, but it was the ’70s. Jessie is a lifelong writer, and with her first novel, she is eager to contribute to the queer YA subgenre. Jessie lives outside Philadelphia with her wife, two cats, and fantasies of days spent volunteering at goat rescues after she retires.

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Sep 10

New Release Blitz: Let the Bite One In by Eule Grey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Let the Bite One In

Series: Kitten and Blonde, Book Two

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/10/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 41900

Genre: Paranormal, contemporary, paranormal, British/Yorkshire, lesbian, over 40, mystery, vampires, blogger, reporters, local paper, witch, neurodivergence, Whitby

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Description

Throw a hungry vampire a steak.

Life has never been better for Kitten and Blonde, paranormal investigators and beer enthusiasts. Finally, there’s time for a rest instead of always rushing into the spirit world to solve ghostly disputes. Even Penny, the grumpy office cat, is purrfectly happy.

Everything’s good until the vampire sisters of Whitby fly in for a visit. Enigmatic Em is well known throughout Yorkshire as a defender of women’s rights and for her hefty right hook. But the minute she laments about a lost vampire, things go bats-up. It’s a twisted tale… Is Em thirty or three hundred? One fact is indisputable—she’s hot. Mave pushes aside her doubts and accepts the case. The pay’s good; the perks are even better—everyone likes a day on Whitby Beach. Count Dracula is a fun myth, right?

Wrong. As soon as Mave starts digging, the nightmares begin: a woman trapped on a train, unsettling aromas, a watchful, hooded figure. It sucks. Even butch Lisa gets her spook-on, and Penny accompanies Mave everywhere, as if she senses malice creeping inevitably closer.

Never tell a witch and her familiar no. Mave discovers strength and powers she didn’t know existed. Meanwhile, a timeless love story hurtles to a fearsome battle for the vampire crown and a woman’s soul.

Dracula. Betrayal. Atonement. Sibling love. When the blood hits the fan, will Kitten and Blonde be strong enough for the final Countess-down?

Kitten and Blonde: Love at first bite. Mostly paranormal. Sometimes alien. Always gentle.

Excerpt

Let the Bite One In
Eule Grey © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Why does nobody see me, trapped on a train crammed with people and their noise?

I make a fuss, bang on the windowless walls, float through seats and bodies, but still, nobody notices me at all. “Hello? Where’s the exit? I can’t get out. Help! Can’t you see me?”

They look through me because I don’t matter.

I’m alone with the chaos of my own head.

“Help!”

I mattered once, but I lost her.

I lost her.

Without her, I’m nothing but a dirty stain.

Did I ever exist?

Am I real?

Shut up.

Shut up!

There’s something at the far end of the carriage that I can’t quite see. With slow, confident steps, it walks towards me.

It’s him.

Coming.

For.

Me.

“Help!”

I woke up screaming. The nightmare faded almost immediately into a telltale prickle at the base of my neck. The prickling sensation was my body’s way of letting me know a spook was nearby.

Rather than fear, an indignant sense of resentment rose to the surface. After a lifetime of liaising between the physical world and the supernatural, those seeking my services hardly ever showed the same respect I offered them.

“What do you want?”

I’d spent the previous two weeks staying with Lisa, and it seemed some of her natural assertiveness had seeped into me.

The entity didn’t reply. Through the darkness, I gained the impression it was saddened rather than angered by my question. Guilt crept in. Maybe the entity had its reasons for sneaking in?

I adopted a more professional tone, albeit grudgingly. “Please call back at a sociable hour. We’ve a drop-in Wednesdays and Thursdays in the garden shed from eleven. If there’s a queue, wait your turn, and no arguing with other customers.” Boundaries were necessary, especially for the dead, who did not discern doors or locks. I didn’t bother offering an address for Lisa’s house. Ghosts rarely needed a map.

The weekday drop-in had been her idea. After a lengthy 3:00 a.m. heart-to-heart with a lonely ghost, she’d put her foot down. “They can make an appointment like anyone else does. You were in the bathroom for hours last night, for fuck’s sake! I thought you’d been sucked down the loo by a giant snake.”

The welcome memory of Ms Blonde led me to a kinder disposition. “You’re here now, so you might as well talk. Where are you?”

The dark cold of my bedroom offered no clues as to the position of the ‘guest’. Though my eyes smarted from the intensity of my glare, only the outline of a wardrobe and billowing blackout curtains looked back.

I inched up the wall until I was sitting rather than prostrate. The top of my head banged against the headboard. To relieve the tension in my neck, I looked up.

It hovered directly above me, only inches from my face. Later, I’d swear she was female, but the shape vanished too swiftly to be sure. A stain of a conflicted aura remained in the atmosphere, chaotic and afraid, a contradictory spirit at odds with itself. The aura might have comprised more than one being. Oddly, it reminded me of Lisa’s brother, Tom.

Wishing I’d spoken more gently, I reached aside and clicked on the lamp. Bright pink light—a Christmas present from Tom—flooded my room. I leapt from bed with the agility of a young Olympiad, banged open every cupboard door, and swept aside my curtains in haste to apprehend the spirit and, perhaps, to make it feel better.

I was too late. It—she—had already departed. The only lingering evidence of her visit was a chilly draft blowing in through a crack in the windowpane I’d meant to fix and a curious smell of godawful cheap perfume. “Ugh.”

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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 03

New Release Blitz: Peril in Provence by Winnie Frolik (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Peril in Provence

Series: The Mary Grey Mysteries, Book Four

Author: Winnie Frolik

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/03/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 60400

Genre: Historical Mystery, Genre/lit, crime, historical, lesbian, 1930s, Provence, Paris, private detective, murder, chateau, painter

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Description

When Mary Grey hears that Harriet West has been arrested for murder in the beautiful and quaint French town of Munier they take the next train out. To their shock, Harriet confesses to the killing but swears it was self-defense. As they try to piece together the truth, more than one skeleton is unearthed in this seemingly sleepy community.

Excerpt

Peril in Provence
Winnie Frolik © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Provence, October 28, 1937

The weather could not have been better for the Feast of St. Simon and St. Jude. The day dawned bright and sunny without a cloud in the too-blue sky and only the gentlest of breezes. Yes, there was an autumnal chill, but it was a briskness that enlivened and stirred the blood rather than keeping people indoors. It had been many years since the Feast Day had enjoyed such pleasant treatment from the elements. Throughout the day, the town square was filled with prize-laden raffle stands selling wines and cheeses. Rounds of boules were played with a level of intensity unseen since the days of duels. This year’s festivities had coincided with the arrival of several Gypsy caravans to the area, and they displayed such carnival acts as knife throwing and fire swallowing. A self-proclaimed seer set up a tent to read tarot cards, and soon a long line formed as all the girls in town waited to learn who their future husband would be. Fronsac, the local artist, made numerous sketches of everything he saw, imagining a new series of oils he would paint commemorating pastoral gaiety. Day became night, but the mood remained merry. The moon itself shone that night with golden radiance. So of course, some form of wickedness had to come along and ruin it. C’est la vie.

All this was quite obvious to everyone in hindsight, but initially on the evening in question, the mood was one of gaiety—even jubilation. For Munier, like all such villages, adored its fêtes votives.

Per tradition, the Feast was held in the town square. A small stage with a microphone had been set up where Mayor Farigoule gave his annual speech, followed by two of the local chevaliers. They spoke at length on the joys of community, fellowship, and the excellent harvest season that year as anxious toes tapped impatiently. The local priest reminded everyone of the spiritual nature of the occasion; St Jude and St. Simon were two of the original apostles and Jesus’s own cousins who would attain martyrdom in Persia. “Do not forget,” Father Benedict instructed, “that glorious St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Lost Causes,” before offering prayers and blessing.

Finally, all the fine oratory ended, and the true business of gluttony could commence as dinner was served. People sat wherever they could find seats. Madame Dellaire of the chateau and her nephew Maxim sat side by side with the peasants who worked her estate and their wives. The owner of one of the finest local vineyards dined alongside one of the area’s most infamous truffle poachers. The former had at one time threatened to shoot the latter if he ever caught him on his property. But for tonight at least, all was forgiven and the two happily broke bread together. Literally. They each grabbed a different end of a baguette, tearing it in two. Neighborhood dogs eagerly scampered below the tables, picking up scattered morsels and tossed bones. Neighborhood cats kept watchful eyes out from the alleys for the rats and other vermin who’d inevitably be attracted by the feast’s detritus.

And what a feast it was! Long trestle tables of rough planked wood groaned under the weight of their offerings: cheeses, baguettes, olive oil by the jug, canapés, bouillabaisse, rosemary-flavored chicken, roasted baby lamb with a creamy garlic sauce, and loins of pork stuffed with mushrooms. One platter even held a freshly caught wild sanglier, roasted and served with an apple in its mouth. And of course there was wine. It had been a fine year for the local grape growers, and in good Gallic tradition, everyone was now enjoying the fruits of their labor. Reds and whites seemed to flow endlessly at the table. It brought color to the English lady’s cheeks, and she talked faster. The young American polished off one drink only to find another thrust into his hands, seemingly out of nowhere, to enjoy. The two of them were a familiar enough sight—the English lady who regularly visited the local boulangerie and the American gentleman who was fond of taking country drives at lightning speed.

“Now this is why I love France!” he roared out to the crowd as he quaffed his glass before making a face. That, he thought, had not been one of the region’s better vintages.

Beside the stage and tables, another area had been cleared for the dancing that must always follow such a feast. By some miracle, people who moments earlier had been almost comatose through overindulgence were now on their feet and moving. An old white-haired Gypsy played the fiddle while his pretty young granddaughter danced with a tambourine. Monsieur Picard as per usual brought out his prized accordion. Many traditional old favorites were played, then the fiddler struck up the paso doble. Gaston the local innkeeper declined all attempts to cajole him to dance, preferring to instead sit on the sidelines and drink. There were plenty of others, though, who were happy to rise to the occasion. The barmaid danced with the local gendarme. The town butcher paired off with the baker’s daughter. Maxim gallantly offered his arm to the local schoolteacher to let her have a turn. Mayor Farigoule gallantly led Madame Dellaire in an impromptu waltz that earned a round of applause from all, including the mayor’s young wife Monique, who sadly could not dance that evening due to a sore toe. She, like Monsieur Duval the town’s pharmacist, watched the dancing from the sidelines.

Curiously, the American and Englishwoman were not there. Perhaps they did not like dancing. And then a couple of people felt drops of rain. Within a matter of seconds, the sprinkle became a torrent, and everyone was struggling to find shelter under the tents and newspapers. Farmers and gentry alike shook their heads glumly, not just for the end of the evening’s festivities but for what it meant to the broader climate. These were not the rains of summer with fat, warm, lazy droplets. No, these were the cold, pounding sheets of water that signaled the arrival of winter. Such floodwaters could sweep away entire fields and level streets as surely as a mine detonating. Worse yet, with the rain, they could feel the wind begin to change. The mistral had arrived once more in all its terrible glory. Uneaten crumbs of cheese and scraps of bread from the tables became airborne and blew among décolletage and shirt fronts. Tablecloths snapped and billowed like sails in full wind. Wineglasses and candles tipped over, and there was a moment’s concern for a possible fire when another disaster entirely intervened.

“Regardez!” a young boy called out, pointing above, and all eyes turned. Munier’s rampart walls, built over seven centuries ago, stood two stories high and along them lay a narrow path lined with a parapet. It had become almost as well trodden over the years as the city cobblestones. Atop those ramparts now were two figures. One male. One female. The latter had his arms around the former. Some in the crowd may have recognized the figures in question as being the foreign guests of Madame Dellaire. The American and the Englishwoman.

Normally, the sight of them out on a moonlit night together in physical engagement would signal an affaire de coeur. But this was no romantic liaison. Indeed, the two of them appeared to be yelling at each other, though their voices could not be made out from below. Some would later claim the woman’s face was contorted with unearthly rage. Others would say she looked frightened. Then there were those who freely admitted to being too far away to really see her face, but they didn’t get much attention. Honesty never makes for riveting testimony. What everyone from the square could see, however, was that the woman tore herself from the arms of the man with a heavy shove.

What was the purpose of the push? Was it, as the woman would later maintain, simply to get away? Was it an act of adrenaline? Or was it, as others would later charge, a deliberate act of malice? There would be a great deal of argument later about intention. It is truly remarkable how willingly people who have never claimed the gift of clairvoyance in the past would be in this instance to assert with full confidence that they—and they alone—knew to have been in the minds of the persons on the wall that night!

What no one could dispute was the result. When the woman pushed him, the man stumbled back on the parapet of the rampart wall…and went over. For one eternal moment, he seemed permanently suspended in the air. His mouth gaped open in shock, and his arms stretched up above him as if reaching for a rope to grab onto. Then gravity overtook him. The man hit the cobblestone street below with a sickening thud and a thick pool of dark liquid began pouring underneath his head. There was a moment of shocked silence.

Then came the screams.

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Meet the Author

Born and raised in Pittsburgh, the Carnegie Library in Oakland was always my second home. I was diagnosed as being a high functioning autistic in college. I hold a useless double major in English literature and creative writing. I’ve worked at nonprofit agencies, in food service, and most recently as a dog-walker/petsitter but the siren song of writing keeps pulling me back into its dark grip. I have co-authored a book on women in the US Senate with Billy Herzig, self-published The Dog-Walking Diaries, and in 2020 my first novel Sarah Crow was published by One Idea Press. I live in my hometown Pittsburgh with my better half, Smoky the Cat. Learn more on Facebook.

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Sep 03

New Release Blitz: Dread by J. Hali Steele (Excerpt & Giveaway)

 

Title: Dread

Series: Scorned Devils MC, Book One

Author: J. Hali Steele

Publisher:  Changeling Press

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Release Date: 09/03/2024

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 90 Pages

Genre: Action Adventure, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense, Age Gap (Older Man), Gay, MC Romance

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Description

Dread: Nicholas “Dread” Derickson is all about his MC, Scorned Devils — until he spies a young man who sets his rebel blood on fire. Sexy bastard might be his undoing if Dread can’t get the president to turn a blind eye to his entanglement, which is cutting into club business just as a splinter group from another club moves into the area. One rider of the wayward gang rubs Dread the wrong way — particularly when he discovers the biker had a prior relationship with the man Dread wants to make his.

Marvin: Marvin Branch hadn’t planned on attending an outlaw biker club party with a woman he’d met at his new job, but now he can’t stop eyeing the handsome older guy who’s definitely a member. Marv’s last liaison ended because the biker he hooked up with refused to be open about their relationship. Vowing not to go down that road again, Marv can’t help being enthralled by Nicholas. Soon Marvin struggles with his new lover’s actions, and his fear of what will happen when he walks away gets the better of him. The man is not only possessive, he’s hell-bent on keeping Marv until he’s had his fill.

Excerpt

Dread (Scorned Devils MC 1)
J. Hali Steele
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 J. Hali Steele

Dread

“Nicholas, about the two prospects.”

Dread hated these damn open-air parties. The park was jammed with bodies. Giving back to the community was necessary now and again. They deserved something, because unless things really got out of hand, the two small local police forces turned a blind eye to most of the Scorned Devils motorcycle club’s bullshit.

More importantly, he hated being called Nicholas. Nicholas Derickson had ceased to exist a long time ago. His death had occurred the first time Dread killed a man. The culprit had missed being on the Scorned Devils MC’s radar, but he should have been. That body had never been found. Never will be, either.

There had been two others. Members who’d become disruptive and had to be dealt with outside the law. Dread felt no guilt, as they understood the rules when they prospected. There had been one more. Club president Barton “Battle” Graves hadn’t been sure of the last death. Even after finding the man’s cut in the clubhouse chest only he and Dread had access to, Battle left it alone at first, ignoring the incident for a time because Dread was Scorned Devils inside out, and Bat knew beyond a doubt he intended to protect his club and anyone they vowed allegiance until Dread took his last breath.

Hell, the man had screwed around with Bat’s older and only sister, Glory Graves. Treated her like shit. She’d been abused, then abandoned after the bastard fathered the pres’ niece, Belinda. He’d occasionally turn up when he was down on his luck, to demand money, or a room for a few days. If it was easier for Bat to believe the man walked away for good, so be it.

Bat had asked about the disappearance once. Dread never responded. And that skull never got painted on Dread’s bikes. However, if he delayed answering Battle now, the jackass would never shut up.

“Nicholas, you hear me?”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Dread had not taken his gaze off the stranger who’d arrived accompanied by Bat’s niece, Belinda. Jesus, he’s hot! The thought surprised Dread. The man was lean, clean shaven and, fuck, downright pretty — and those types never excited him. Something about the way the man carried himself, how he returned Dread’s scrutiny without blinking, excited him, though. Bastard exuded confidence.

Nodding in their direction, Dread asked, “Who’s that with Belinda?” Dread had no interest in diving back into the same pond he swam in for the last six months. His sex life had drifted into no man’s land, but the youngster he eyed was a bright spot on the horizon. I will fuck him until he can’t walk.

“How the hell would I know? Ask Belinda. No matter how much I bitch, she cozies up to some man. Shit, she calls you uncle more often than me.” Attempting to imitate his niece, Bat mocked, “Why can’t you call me Bell, like Uncle Dread?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“My sister’s crap’s the big deal. She’s biting my ass. Doesn’t like her daughter anywhere near me. Hell, I don’t either.”

“Barton, grab your balls and tell your sister to fuck off.” Dread’s attention remained on the newcomer.

“Kiss my ass. Anyway, he likely works with Belinda at one of your establishments.” Kicking the dirt, Bat added, “All the strangers here, you’re concerned by my niece’s latest conquest?”

Holding eye contact, Dread smiled at the fucker. He knew the sexy young man slinking behind Belinda wasn’t a lady’s man. “He’s not her type.” There would be no complaint from Dread about her dragging this one along, yet Dread made note to talk with his managers, keep better tabs on who they hired. “You asked me to give her a job, Battle. It was Cutters or Hell’s Lair.”

“She’s not to be in any part of the Lair, Dread. Bar, clubhouse, nothing. I mean it.”

Dread observed Bell’s friend laughing at something a member’s old lady had said. He is not Hell’s Lair material, either. Dread owned both Cutters, a nice restaurant featuring live music on weekends, and Hell’s Lair, a straight up hole-in-the-wall biker’s bar. He received nice compensation monthly from the Scorned Devils MC treasury for renting them the large, wide-open storage area behind the bar. It doubled as the clubhouse.

The spot had had another name before Dread changed it to Hell’s Lair. Paid pennies on the dollar when he violently wrestled ownership from a man who didn’t deserve it. Jackass mistreated his employees and fired anyone he discovered was gay. For a moment Dread wondered where that bastard had ended up after being beaten to within an inch of his life and chased out the city. One thing Dread was sure of, the son of a bitch would never open his mouth about what had occurred.

Subsequently, the bar made enough for Dread to snatch Cutters up when it came on the market. Only a handful of his crew were aware who owned Cutters, and none ever set foot inside. Too fancy for their liking. Even he couldn’t buy respectability, but Dread liked having one thing in his life that felt decent.

“Too much talk in the Lair’s bar area. That shit must be addressed and I don’t trust Belinda to follow my rule about visiting the club.”

“I’ll handle the loose lips. Anyway, our guys know not to permit your niece inside. If she sneaks in, you or I will get a call. If they ever touch a hair on her head, they’ll see me sooner than later.” Angling toward Battle, Dread slapped the pres’ shoulder. “That’s what you have me for.”

“And sometimes you worry me.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Dread was the only one who dared speak to the club president like that. “What were you saying about prospects?”

“A vote on patching is necessary. They’ve both proved themselves.” Bat’s sigh filled the air. “We got to watch those five hellions out of Philadelphia. Shit, been too long since I had a sit-down with the pres of Bayside Specters. Sons of bitches didn’t even have the courage or respect to announce themselves. Still, I’d like to avoid trouble. Devils have grown. We established ourselves in the county and Coatesville is home. It’s a small city and trouble of any sort marring our MC’s reputation will not be tolerated.”

Growth was important. Thirty-four members strong, Scorned Devils had become a club to be reckoned with in Pennsylvania but Bat was right. “We’ll take it up at the next meeting. This isn’t the time or place.”

Over the last couple months, several instances had developed that Dread wished the president had allowed him to handle. He understood Bat’s caution, yet appearing weak wasn’t suitable. Dread had turned down running the Devils, or becoming vice president as Battle had hoped, as they moved up through club ranks. Dread liked his position of sergeant at arms. Trusting anyone else to ensure club rules would be followed and appropriate punishment doled out when necessary didn’t suit Dread, either.

“Don’t know how you can tell, but you’re probably right about that young man. Anyway, I know I’m not getting anything useful out of you until you make yourself known to him.” Turning serious, Bat added, “Be careful.”

“Careful?” Bat knew who Dread was and he also understood some things would never change. “That shit flew out the window twenty years ago when I screwed the fourth prospect who patched for the Devils. I can handle members who scoff at what I am.” A few hard cases, kept under Dread’s scrutiny, disdained gay activity, but not one of the Devils would dare say a word about his or any other member’s sexual inclination. “Terror’s not here to protect the fuckers, and they like having their teeth.”

The Scorned Devils vice president was near the end of a three-year sentence for assault. Nineteen years younger than Dread, Terror was fucking nuts, and Dread didn’t relish the time he would return. Made him wish, sometimes, he had accepted vice president under Battle. Luckily, Bat had succeeded in keeping them from tearing each other apart. At least for now. But the day would come.

“You know what the fuck I mean. He’s not one of us. He’s too clean cut for the likes of us, and he reeks of decency. Hell, the kid isn’t even your usual hairy type.” Bat’s eyes shuttered. “Not as if… Look, Dread, club culture doesn’t favor settling down.”

“What? Fuck that, man, I’m not looking for anything permanent. Scorned Devils requires my attention, I’m here, Battle. That shit will never change.” Jerking away, Dread made his way through the crowd to lay claim to his next conquest.

Purchase at Changeling Press

 

Meet the Author

A former MC associate, J. Hali Steele loves anything with wheels, including motorcycles, classic automobiles, and race cars. A retired winning ex-quarter mile drag racer, J. Hali often angles to get her butt back in the driver’s seat!

J. Hali is a multi-published, best-selling author of romance in Contemporary MC, ReligErotica, Paranormal, Fantasy, 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 her favorite beverage of the moment.

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Aug 27

New Release Blitz: The Chef by Mell Eight (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Chef

Series: Princes of Toval, Book One

Author: Mell Eight

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 08/27/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 62200

Genre: Fantasy, culinary arts, royalty, mercenaries, soldiers, politics, magic, road trip

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Description

Char is a level one chef, capable of imbuing magic into his cooking. Offered a job in a new city where he can further develop his skills and grow toward his goal of one day owning his own restaurant, Char undertakes a dangerous journey through the Spikehorn Mountain pass. However, deadly beasts, thieves, and dodgy recipe ingredients aren’t the only challenges in the mountains. When the mercenary group he travels with is attacked and killed, Char wows their killers with his skills and chooses to join them instead of being left to travel on his own.

Figuring out how to cook over a campfire with only salted and dried ingredients is a unique challenge for Char, but the fighters promised to deliver Char safely to his new job once their own task in the mountains is complete. But the new fighters aren’t everything they appear to be, especially Captain Fen, who makes Char think about something other than cooking for the first time in years. Surviving the mountain crossing was supposed to be tough, but surviving this new journey might prove impossible.

Excerpt

The Chef
Mell Eight © 2024
All Rights Reserved

The sounds of battle had been going on for at least ten minutes. Char ignored them. The harsh metal clanging of sword against sword, the screech as a sword slid against armor, and the groaning and gasping of fighters as they exerted themselves—and ultimately died. Char let all that mess flow around him.

Keeping the oatmeal from burning was much more important after all.

Char gave the deep pot a stir, gauging the softness of the oats. Satisfied with the consistency, he opened the pouch of dried fruit and tipped it over the pot, letting half the pouch fall into the oatmeal below. The heat and residual water would soften and partially rehydrate the fruit, making it a perfect addition to breakfast. Char also put in about a tablespoon of brown sugar—calibrated to be enough for a pot this large without forgetting the natural sweetness the fruit would also add.

He glanced below the pot at the cooking fire that was mostly embers and decided it didn’t need more wood. The oatmeal would be ready about the time the battle against whichever thieves had been airheaded enough to attack an armed mercenary company was over. After the mercenaries ate and tended their wounded, Char expected them to move out. He didn’t need to maintain the fire to make lunch, since lunch would likely be jerky eaten in the saddle. At least Char had a pouch of his own homemade chicken jerky, carefully spiced with sage and smoked with onion and garlic. He didn’t want to know what the rest of the band were actually eating when it didn’t come out of a pot or pan of something he prepared; Char suspected it would be something gross.

The oatmeal was starting to bubble and blurp, very close to being ready. Char gave it another stir and then stopped to actually pay attention to his surroundings.

Sounds of battle came from all directions, so whatever enemy the mercenaries were fighting had tried to flank them. Still, the number of bangs, clangs, and groans of pain hidden from him by the thick brush and rocky terrain surrounding the campsite were diminishing, so the battle was definitely nearly ended. Char stood, went over to the bags adjacent to where their pack donkey was picketed, and pulled out bowls and spoons. He returned to the fire and started laying out his supplies until he had two lines of bowls, each with a spoon resting inside. The last bowl and spoon he kept for himself.

He was just reaching for the pot to fill his bowl so he could eat before the onslaught of hungry postbattle mercenaries when something hard tapped him on the shoulder.

Char glanced back and froze in place, the tip of a bloodied sword brushing against his cheek.

“No blood near the food, please,” he said automatically.

But, as his eyes followed the length of the blade up to the owner, he wasn’t met with one of the mercenaries he had been feeding for the last week. The stranger was tall and his fair hair, where it poked out beneath his helmet, was darkened with sweat. A splash of someone else’s blood crossed his even features, and his hard hazel eyes glared down at Char.

“Er, hello?” Char forced out, unsure how to react.

“Captain, I think that’s the last of them,” someone else called from the edge of the clearing. “We can move out when you’re done with him.”

The stranger—the captain—only moved his eyes away as he replied, the sword not wavering against Char’s neck. “Check their supplies. I want any orders or paperwork indicating what they were doing out here, and we might as well take anything of use.” His gaze immediately returned to Char. “You’re a noncombatant?” he asked.

“Hired to cook and maintain camp for the mercenary company,” Char replied. “Do you want some oatmeal? It’s just about ready, and it sounds like the people I made it for are no longer around to eat it.”

“Are you bonded to a merc company or freelance?” the captain asked.

He was asking whether Char had any emotional investment linked to the mercenaries the captain and his people had just killed. Char didn’t. What he wanted was their armed escort through the mountain pass and, incidentally, their coin. A lone traveler wouldn’t survive the mountain lions, let alone the bandits looking for the easy pickings of travelers exhausted after the arduous climb. Adding a little spending money to help him get on his feet at his destination was an added benefit. Besides, aside from the mercenary captain, Char hadn’t learned their names or really spoken with any of them. They hadn’t been a friendly bunch, really more of a means to an end, so he wasn’t particularly upset they were gone.

“Freelance,” Char replied, trying to sound convincing. He would have shrugged, but that sword still hadn’t moved. “I wanted to travel east; they wanted someone to maintain their camp. Getting paid is a side bonus. I’m headed for Etoval. No idea where they were going. We only contracted through to Marketon.”

The captain continued to glare, his frown full of distrust.

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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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Aug 20

New Release Blitz: The Black Lily Society by Alice G. Holmes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Black Lily Society

Series: April Oaks, Book Two

Author: Alice G. Holmes

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 08/20/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 106500

Genre: Paranormal, paranormal, urban fantasy, asexual, demisexual, lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer, poly, ghosts, vampires, Night Hag, empath, neurodivergent, New Orleans

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Description

Lyric Morrison is looking to get away. After the Phoenix Coup, she wants to forget all about vampires. She decides to move to New Orleans, the perfect place for a fresh start. However, upon moving into her new apartment, Lyric meets a woman named Heather Campbell. She’s bright, she’s cheerful, and she’s dead. Heather is a ghost, and she wants Lyric to solve her murder.

Suddenly, Lyric finds herself pulled back into the world of vampires and magic by a power she didn’t know she possessed. Lyric is a medium, with the ability to communicate with the dead. As she’s drawn further into the investigation, she meets Elias—the vampire who saved her life in Phoenix, who is also the number one suspect in Heather’s untimely death.

Along the way, Lyric befriends another vampire named Lionel and Verity, a clairvoyant, both of whom have a dark secret tied to Lyric’s own past. Torn between her feelings for Elias and her promise to help Heather, Lyric is caught in a tangled web of mystery that may be her undoing.

Excerpt

The Black Lily Society
Alice G. Holmes © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Sweat poured down my back. My glasses fogged up from the exertion. My muscles ached, and I grunted as I pushed against the heavy box. I panted as I shoved the box up the steps, until finally it was in the apartment. I wiped my brow and exhaled, exhaustion creeping over me. “That’s the last one,” I said. No one was around to hear me. It was the last week of August, and the heat and humidity were getting to me.

I sighed, went inside, and closed and locked the door behind me. Thankfully, I’d already assembled the furniture. I stepped around the last box and collapsed, boneless, onto the bed. I winced as I was a sweaty, smelly mess and these were clean sheets.

“Good thing I got the washer,” I said. I’d technically moved in a week ago. But there was a delay in getting my boxes from Miss Sophie’s in the Bywater to my new place in the Lower Garden District. Not an easy task without a truck. Or help.

The elation I’d felt with a job well done slowly ebbed away. As I stared at the high ceiling of my new studio apartment, I reflected on how I’d ended up there. My original plan to move involved about two years of working and scrimping and saving but two things happened.

Firstly, everyone who’d been in Phoenix during the coup was given a check for damages from the government. Mine wasn’t huge, since it was just me and no one in my family died. As though a check could make up for what happened. A city taken hostage by the undead, people terrorized and killed, and the government just says, “Here, have money to help you forget about it.” Still, I wouldn’t turn down free money. And it was enough that I was able to pay down some debt. I used the rest to book a stay at a long-term rental in New Orleans and mail most of my belongings there.

The second was my job. In an effort to save money (and because the coup had been hard on everyone) we went fully remote. I was given a company laptop, headphones, and microphone and told not to come into the office anymore. When I asked if I could move and still keep my job, my supervisor discussed it with the company president. They got back to me a few days later and said it was fine.

My therapist agreed a change of scenery would be good for me, though I wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. Fifteen hundred miles was a bit far to travel for an appointment.

On our last visit, she’d asked, “Are you still having nightmares?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“And will you still go to therapy once you relocate?”

“I don’t know yet. I still have my job, and I can work from home. But my benefits may change.”

“I would recommend you look into it as soon as possible.”

“Otherwise, I might go crazier? Great.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “Lyric, you’re not crazy. You’ve had a traumatic experience, preceded by a traumatic childhood. Trauma exacerbated by an undiagnosed neurodivergent disorder. You may be fragile, but you’re not crazy.”

“Same thing, different name.”

I was flippant because I was terrible at goodbyes. I knew despite requests to keep in touch, I wouldn’t. It always played out the same in the past. I’d call and email and make a nuisance of myself. Then I’d come to my senses and stop pestering people who wouldn’t write or call me back.

It was nice to finally have a name for my “genius syndrome” as my father called it. Autism, I was autistic. Dr. Cade said if it were still in the DSM I would have been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome—as though it lightened the stigma surrounding my diagnosis. Though I’m glad I didn’t get saddled with that. After reading online that Asperger’s was a term coined by a Nazi, I was happy to leave it behind.

Dr. Cade encouraged me to alert my employers, but I chose to keep my diagnosis to myself, and I was glad I did. Otherwise, when those vampires took over Phoenix, they may have dragged me away, never to be seen again.

A constant point of contention between myself and Dr. Cade: She insisted they weren’t real vampires but “troubled people who believed they were,” I argued they were and showed her footage I found displaying their fangs and their super strength. She dismissed it as trickery. I stopped short of telling her what I’d seen with my own two eyes. I didn’t want to end up like my former boss.

“Stop,” I said aloud. I knew where my thoughts were going, and it would only upset me. I needed to focus on the joy of the situation. I was hundreds of miles away, in my new home in New Orleans.

Before the coup, I’d gone to New Orleans on vacation with a friend. I fell in love with the city straight away. I had the strangest sensation I’d been there before. The day I had to return to Phoenix was the day I decided I would go back to New Orleans in the fall. I was originally going to visit on another vacation. I ended up relocating instead.

I reached into my pocket and took out my phone. I opened Eris, my favorite chat app. I saw a message from Psyche. She wanted to know how I was.

EratoONine: Finally done.

Psychepomp: About time!

EratoONine: Yeah, sorry for the delay. The boxes were heavy, and I didn’t have any help.

Psychepomp: I thought you were going to hire movers.

EratoONine: This was cheaper.

Psychepomp: But not easier.

EratoONine: You got me.

Psychepomp: You’re going to hurt yourself.

EratoONine: I’m fine.

Psychepomp: Liar. So, what are you doing tonight?

EratoONine: I’m going to take a shower and head downtown.

Psychepomp: Ooo! Anything fun planned?

EratoONine: Not really. Walk the Quarter, get some dinner.

Psychepomp: You should go to Port of Call! They have awesome burgers, and they serve them with baked potatoes.

EratoONine: I’ll put a pin in that for another time. I’m not in the mood for beef today.

Psychepomp: Suit yourself. Take lots of pictures! I gotta go; the kids are home.

EratoONine: Give them my love. See you later.

She sent me a kiss emoji and went offline. I put the phone away and groaned as I got to my feet. I had overdone it because I just had to do everything myself. I admit it, I have difficulty asking for help. And yeah, I still managed to pull it off on my own, but at the cost of aching muscles and smelling like a dead water buffalo.

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Meet the Author

Alice was born in California in the 80s, which explains so much, really. Before becoming a writer they were in a punk band and also worked as a nurse. In their spare time they enjoy television shows about ghosts and baking as well as a wide spectrum of music. They currently live in Arizona with their collection of Funko Pops and comic book figurines. Find Alice on Facebook.

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Aug 13

New Release Blitz: Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb by Eule Grey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 08/13/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 23600

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, romance, lesbian/sapphic, butch/femme, detective, gin-maker, bikes/bike shop, siblings, first love, secrets, family drama, sweet, steamy, summer fete, flip-flop love, synaesthesia

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Description

The rules for ex-undercover cops are clear: No girlfriend, no sex, no snuggles—too risky for everyone concerned. After a year of spying on gangsters, tough Charlie couldn’t agree more. She doesn’t want a girlfriend or a relationship; she only needs power tools and a job in her brother’s bike shop.

Still, it’s difficult to leave the past behind. Charlie feels bad about betraying the gangster’s trust. Guilt comes with the job. So what? When a gorgeous gin artist becomes a neighbour, wanting to help is natural. Fix the fridge—yeah. Sexual attraction? Nope. Girlfriend? Double nope. All that matters is following the rules: No girlfriend, no sex, no sharing. Repeat.

Rose loves summer flowers, gin, pretty clothes, and butch lesbians. Owning a cocktail shop is a dream come true, even if the responsibility is tricky for one person to bear. If only she had friends and family! A caring friend would be extremely welcome to fix the fridge and put up the shelves. It’s strange how Charlie smells of wild ginger and Rose of sweet rhubarb, like an award-winning gin.

Rose has secrets, too, about the past. She doesn’t intend to cuddle up with Charlie. It’s just that the heart wants what the heart wants. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

One thing is certain… When wild ginger gets in the rhubarb, nothing can stop it.

Excerpt

Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb
Eule Grey © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Raspberry and Apple

Rose

Rose had never been more nervous. The uncomfortable bus journey from her dingy bedsit, which had been ‘home’ for the last three months, to a fabulous new shop took forever, or at least it seemed so. She expected something awful to happen with every jolt—engine trouble, catastrophic floods, planetary annihilation…

An abundant, gingery aroma soon ascended the suncream most people had liberally applied because of the heatwave. It was a trick of the senses, nothing more. As a child, Rose’s family had joked about her uncanny ability to identify flowers at a distance and how she’d associated strong smells with people. Dad was apple, Fionn, ginger.

A pang went through her when she remembered her family. She missed them, particularly Fionn, her twin, though it had been years since they’d been together. Rose glanced among the other passengers, looking eagerly for him anyway. If only he were here! She could have done with the support of family on today of all days. Ah, well.

The new shop door key had become embedded in her sweaty palm as if engraved forever. Legalities had long been finalised, contracts signed, and the deposit paid. Nevertheless, Rose couldn’t lose the certainty that something was bound to go wrong.

Because today meant everything. Everything. Ever since she was a small girl, her ambition had been to own and manage a business. The details of her fantasy changed with the years—spacewoman, dancer, nurse—but the dream remained: to begin work each morning hopeful, knowing exactly how the day would go. No bitchy managers or impossible targets, just blissful days spent doing what she loved, cocooned with the scent of flowers and herbs, in charge of her destiny at last.

It had taken years to save for a deposit while learning the ancient art of ginmaking. Rose planned to build a small but loyal customer following at the shop on the high street next to a greengrocer. It would be lovely to hire an assistant, though she became quite nauseous at the thought of interviews. How would she know which candidate to pick? As a girl, she’d been useless at spotting a rogue from a sweetheart despite her status as the daughter of a gangster. No amount of lost dinner money or brotherly ‘lessons’ had made her a better judge of character.

To give herself something to think about other than Fionn, she planned an itinerary once inside the shop. First, scrub the rooms from top to bottom, then arrange some dried flowers in elegant bowls. A new venture required lavender, lemon balm, and jasmine to lift the mood and welcome in the summer. Once the place was fragrant, she could buy a cheap sleeping bag and work out where to sleep. With all of her savings used up, she reckoned she could live at the shop until the money started coming in.

Two women sitting close together across the bus aisle from Rose interrupted her daydreams. They were holding hands, giggling, and sharing stories. The elder wore a sleeveless top, which revealed an impressively muscular physique; the younger a short, pretty dress Rose might have chosen for herself. They fit together perfectly, brawn, snuggling petite. If Rose had to guess their scents, she’d have selected clematis with olive.

She could hardly tear her gaze away. The big woman slung an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders, kissing the top of her nose. She caught Rose staring and winked.

With a start, Rose looked away, embarrassed. A familiar ache entered her plans and then her lonely heart. If only she had someone to share her days—a woman with a loyal, caring fierceness who wouldn’t mind Rose had been born into a family of gangsters. Truth was, she was too nervous to meet such a woman. What if they found out about her infamous family? No. Life was too hectic anyway. A new business took much energy and time. Once established, she could better consider matters of the heart.

The bus finally trundled into the town centre. Rose walked with unsteady legs and a smile. She still expected a catastrophe to prevent her from reaching the shop, but the short walk had gone swimmingly. It was another hot day, with an azure sky, birds singing, and everywhere, laughing shoppers. The street boasted a busy, peaceful atmosphere, with a green park at one end and a cosy café at the other—a perfect location for a speciality gin shop: Gin, Gin. The whole area had recently been renovated. The grand opening ceremony was due midsummer, with a parade and a street party for all vendors planned, not that Rose would be going—she was far too shy.

Even without the extra sales the carnival would bring, Rose had a clear business plan. Shoppers could pop in after a long day or when they needed a special gift. Where better to purchase an individualised tipple made with love and care? Her gins were like no other. Long ago, she’d discovered how to listen to a story and identify what the person wanted through flowers and scents. Orange blossom to heal a jealous heart, honeysuckle for courage, mixed berries for love. Personalised gins offered a fun means to reach one’s goals. Rose adored making people smile better than anything else.

She reached the shop before noticing the monstrosity dumped on her doorstep—a rusty old bike covered with mud and grime. Some of the muck had rubbed onto her green door. Determined not to let an ancient bike ruin her day, she wheeled the contraption to a nearby communal bin, scribbled a quick note, rubbish, and attached it to the frame before hurrying back to the green door. Hers at last!

A bubble of happiness rose from her chest, lifting her from lingering worries. As she slotted her key into the lock, she hoped it was the moment she’d dreamed about, the event which would facilitate a happy, fulfilled life free from grime and crime. Her certainty was reinforced by the lime freshness zinging in the air and the faraway hint of a smoky bonfire.

Just as Rose stepped happily onto the shop’s threshold to begin her new life, an angry shout came from the bins.

“Oi! What the hell? I want a word with you, missus.”

Rose turned with alarm. A strapping, tattooed woman lifted the rusty bike from the bin with one hand and then stalked across, wearing heavy combat boots that might’ve been at home on an army base. Her expression became contorted by anger, and her fists were tightly clenched.

Fearing the worst, Rose did what she always did at times of crisis—she ran—straight into the shop, where she locked the door behind her. “Sorry! I thought it was scrap.” Please go away, please go away. An overwhelming scent of ginger almost caused her to gag. Mentally, she returned to ten years old, locked in the bathroom with Fionn and a bottle of ginger fizzy pop as the police kicked down the front door, searching for their parents.

Meanwhile, the muscled woman thumped rudely on the door. “Scrap indeed. How dare you. Don’t touch our bikes!”

Rose sank to the floor, hoping fervently the woman would disappear. Not for the first time, she wished she were braver, more able to assert herself instead of running at the first sign of trouble. But she didn’t know how to achieve the goal, and nobody was around to offer support. Not even honeysuckle had helped her be more assertive despite keeping bunches of the stuff in her underwear drawer.

After a while, ordinary street sounds returned: children laughing, birdsong, an ice cream vendor shouting his wares. Rose eventually peered outside, first from the window and then through the glass in the door. Once she was sure the woman had moved away, she gradually opened the door, blinking into the bright sunshine like a bear after hibernation.

The pavement was now littered with bikes, and it became apparent why. The shop next door was no longer a greengrocer but a bike shop. The tattooed woman stood inside, cleaning the window. When she saw Rose, she placed her hands on herculean hips, glaring like a Greek goddess, emanating anger and something else Rose tried hard to forget—the smell of ginger, different from Fionn’s but ginger nonetheless.

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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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