Tempt the Night by Dixie Lee Brown [BookBlitz + Giveaway]

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TEMPT THE NIGHT

Tempt the Night
Trust No One # 5

By: Dixie Lee Brown

Releasing February 24th, 2015

Avon Impulse

 

Blurb

Dixie Lee Brown concludes her thrilling Trust No One series with the fast-paced tale of a damaged hero and the sexy fugitive he can’t help falling for.

Samantha “Mac” McCallister barely believes her own tale of dirty cops and murder that landed her in the hands of the sexy Jim Brady. One minute she was enjoying a ride-along in her best friend’s cruiser, the next he’s dead and she’s wanted for his murder. Mac never expected to be hiding out from the law, but with Jim by her side, maybe she can survive long enough to clear her name. The question is, can she survive the way Jim makes her feel?

Former Navy Seal Jim Brady works best under pressure. At least he used to. Now, fighting flashbacks from his time in Iraq, he has given up everything he knows in order to protect the innocent … from himself. So working with a woman on the run from the law? Not in his plans for this lifetime. Still, something about the blue-eyed beauty tells him she’s not the source of the danger—she’s running from it. Deep down he knows he’ll protect her no matter what. But his heart? That’s another story.

 

 

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Author Info

DIXIE LEE BROWN lives and writes in Central Oregon, inspired by what she believes is the most gorgeous scenery Dixie Leeanywhere. She resides with two dogs and a cat, who make sure she never takes herself too seriously. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, movies, and trips to the beach.

 

Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads 

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The Burden of Souls by Andy Monk [BookBlitz]

 

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Sci-Fi / Dark Fantasy

Date Published:September 2014

SciFi

Small Town, Dark Heart…

A long way from anywhere, on a road going nowhere, lays a small, unremarkable town. It seems a peaceable, prosperous little place, on the surface at least.

Away from prying eyes however, in the shadows and the forgotten corners, there is a web being weaved through the lives of its inhabitants by the town’s urbane and mysterious Mayor. A man prepared to make a deal for your heart’s desire and, maybe, for your very soul…

Welcome to Hawker’s Drift, a town where nothing is quite as it seems…

 

 Excerpt

Only three people trudged behind the coffin-laden wagon.

He assumed the woman in the black dress was the widow. Her face was veiled, but her back was straight and she moved as freely as the cloying mud allowed; a young widow. A small bookish man peering through rain-smeared spectacles laboured next to her, struggling to hold an umbrella over them both in the wind. Behind came a cadaverous looking old bird clutching a dog-eared bible to his chest. A preacher.

Amos pulled his horse to the side of the road; if that wasn’t too generous a description for two mud-choked ruts. It meandered towards a town that occupied a low slung hill; the only feature on the vast tableland of grass. He took off his hat and let the rain sting his face as the little procession passed. The widow glanced up at him hesitantly, before nodding an acknowledgement. From behind the shadows of her veil he got the impression of an attractive woman with no intention of crying. There was sadness, not unexpectedly, coming off of her, but interspersed with those dull grey waves came prickly spikes of fear too.

The preacher flicked a glance in his direction as well, but he quickly dropped his eyes and scurried along, his body bent forward against the driving rain. He looked terribly unhappy with his lot. The preacher was suffering, a physical pain beneath a terrible craving.

The third man, his jacket flapping in the breeze, ignored him, and Amos tried to do the same to the hot, fetid desire that was rolling off of him like a burning fever.

Whoever was being buried had not warranted much in the way of gestures from the rest of the town. What did you have to do to end up with only two mourners and a sour-faced preacher at your funeral?

As the wagon bearing the coffin rattled on towards the cemetery, signified by a small forest of crosses poking above the surrounding long grass, he let the rain wash the scent of their souls from the air before he replaced his hat and pushed his weary horse on towards the town.

Out here, where seas of grass washed towards too far away horizons and the earth squatted beneath colossal skies, it amounted to civilization.

He slipped his coat back and made sure his gun was free to draw.

Civilization, he had found, tended to suck.

 

Author Bio &  Links

Andy Monk lives in London with his partner and their goldfish.

After a high-flying academic career and glittering success in professional sport, followed by a jet-set lifestyle of wild parties, exotic holidays and beautiful women, he settled down to write internationally acclaimed best-selling novels.andy monk

Andy Monk has a tendency to exaggerate and has an occasionally tenuous grip on reality.

He does, however, have a goldfish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Royalties by Andy Marx [BookBlitz + Giveaway]

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Royalties

by Andy Marx

 

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BLURB

 

America has never seen anything to match the innovation, energy, romance, and excitement of the 20th Century. And the embodiment of all this is Eve Solomon, a young woman who embraces the vitality of the times with a fervor. Determined to make a name for herself in the fledgling music business of 1908, she ultimately becomes wildly successful. But the same steely determination that takes her to the heights of the entertainment world cannot bring her the one thing she wants more than anything: the love of her life, Alex Getz, a struggling Vaudeville comic who becomes one of Hollywood’s biggest stars. As their careers and lives intersect across the years, there is a price to pay—a royalty for true love that can never be measured.

 

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EXCERPT

 

The ring was dazzling.

 

Square cut, about two carats, Eve guessed, as she looked down at the diamond. Set in ornate Victorian silver and resting perfectly on a black velvet cushion, she could picture it on her finger…even imagine the looks of envy on her friends’ faces as she waved it in front of them. There was no doubt she loved the ring, but not the man who had given it to her.

 

When Ben had called her earlier in the day and announced he had a surprise, Eve never suspected he planned to propose. Smiling at him, while a myriad of conflicting thoughts ran through her mind, she could only conjure one clear idea. What am I going to tell him?

 

“Say something,” Ben said, breaking her reverie. “I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words before.”

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

“Try it on. I want to see if it fits.”

 

Slipping the ring on her finger, Eve thought about how many times she had imagined this moment. But up until two months ago, before she finally decided to stop waiting for Alex, she had always imagined him, not Ben, doing the proposing.

 

“I guess I’m a little surprised,” Eve said.

 

“I’m doing pretty well,” he said. “I moved Ma and my sisters into a bigger apartment. I’ve got a nice place. I figured it was time to start thinking about a family. And I couldn’t think of anybody I’d rather start a family with than you.”

 

 

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Andy Marx is an award-winning writer and photographer, whose work has appeared in Variety, The Los Angeles Times and Entertainment Weekly, among others. He is also the co-founder of the comedy website, Hollywood & Swine, known for its lampooning MEDIA KIT Andy_Marx_portraitof the entertainment industry. His paternal grandfather was the legendary comedian, Groucho Marx, and his maternal grandfather, the renowned songwriter, Gus Kahn. Marx lives in Beverly Hills with his wife and three children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  • Twitter: @andymarx

 

 

 

 

 

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Silvern by Christina Farley [BookBlitz + Giveaway]


Publisher: Skyscape
Published: 23 September 2014
Format: Paperback 373 pages
See: Full bibliographic data
Categories: Children’s Books Fiction General Science Fiction Fantasy Traditional
ISBN 13: 9781477820346 ISBN 10: 1477820345


Official Book Blast for Silvern by Christina Farley

This is a book blast, you will post the promotional info we provide you with, including the giveaway. No reviews required. Please mark your Calendar.

Jae Hwa Lee has destroyed Haemosu, the dangerous demi-god that held her ancestors captive, and now she’s ready to forget about immortals and move on with her life. Then the god of darkness, Kud, sends an assassin to kill her. Jae escapes with the knowledge that Kud is seeking the lost White Tiger Orb, and joins the Guardians of Shinshi to seek out the orb before Kud can find it.

But Kud is stronger and more devious than Haemosu ever was. Jae is soon painfully reminded that by making an enemy of Kud, she has placed her closest friends in danger, and must decide how much she can bear to sacrifice to defeat one of the most powerful immortals in all of Korea.

You can purchase Silvern at the following Retailers:


Book Nerd Spotlight
Photo Credit: Liga Photography 

After teaching and traveling internationally for ten years, Christina started writing about her adventures, tossing in a little fiction for fun. This inspired her to write the GILDED series, a YA series based on Korean mythology about a Korean-American girl who takes her destiny into her own hands.

Besides writing, Christina loves traveling, running, driving too fast, and eating dark chocolate.

Christina writes fantasy for teens. She is represented by Jeff Ourvan of the Jennifer Lyons Literary, LLC.
Learn more about Christina by visiting her at www.christinafarley.com or by chatting with her on Twitter @christinafarley.

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Shattered Embrace by P. R. Newton [BookBlitz + Giveaway]


 

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Blurb

Contemporary / Women’s Fiction
Date Published: 3/14/2014

Bethlehem took her first breath as her mother took her last.

Left to survive in overcrowded Ethiopian orphanages, she developed survival skills rivaling a warrior – a fierce, independent fighter before she could walk or talk. As she approached her second birthday, Bethlehem lived her days guided by two rules: everyone leaves and trust no one.

A world away in Canada, Tory Witcraft is trying to adopt from Ethiopia with her husband, Matt, when her adoption agency goes bankrupt, threatening her dreams of becoming a mother. Against the advice of many, including government officials threatening to revoke the adoption, she goes to Ethiopia, and her new daughter, Bethlehem.

When they finally meet, both mother and daughter struggle to connect, each trapped by their own fears and demons. Emotions and tempers run hot. Hearts and dreams collide, shattering a family before it could fully form.

The adoption journey was difficult, but no one expected the hardest part of the journey would begin once they met.

Excerpt

An itty bitty little thing of a girl came running into the room. Bouncing high with each step as she flew at them and promptly threw herself into Matt’s lap. Tory’s hand clutched her face, her breath stopped in her chest as she watched Matt draw the little girl close. His body rocked as he held her, his face split into a smile of pure joy.
“Daddy!” she cried out in a squeaky voice. She grabbed Matt’s face kissing each cheek with a big, slimy, open mouth kiss.
“Bethlehem!” Matt breathed out as he hugged her and kissed the top of her head.
“Bethlehem,” Tory whispered the name, as if saying it for the first time as she took in the face of the little girl she had studied through pictures for months. Blowing up the pictures until she could examine every facet of the the little girls features. Seeing her up close, face to face, finally close enough to touch left Tory breathless. Her skin itched to touch her. With a tentative hand she stroked her back.

 Author Bio

P.R. (Piper) Newton is a proud geek mom of two little boys, one through birth, one through adoption. She has a background in psychology and continues to take post-grad courses in childhood trauma and development. In her writings she loves to explore the human mind, putting her characters through unthinkable things, just to see how they react. She is a full-time author, who believes in the magical, creative inducing powers of arm warmers and stripy socks.

 

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Exit by Shane Filer [BookBlitz + Giveaway]

 

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Exit

Shane Filer

Genre: YA, General Fiction, Contemporary

Publisher: Biblio Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-62249-142-1

Number of pages: 222

Word Count: 58,000

Cover Artist: Ekaterina Zagustina

 

 

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Blurb

 

“Did you know I spent the whole of my fifteenth year in my room?”

Briar’s impromptu, mid-afternoon confession stirs up distant memories of the lonely time she spent trapped in her home; suffering agoraphobia — fear of open spaces.

Now it’s six years later.

She’s free, but the year’s isolation has left serious personality disorders; disorders which will resurface as she relates her own story, and that of those in her orbit; Melodie, a pretty valley girl who Briar desires to be, Justine, her oldest friend, who has her own dark secret, and Dermot, a man who thinks he’s the reincarnation of Robin Hood — stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

Slowly Dermot begins to draw Briar into his ever-so-exciting world, but who is leading whom on their slow descent into crime? Duel periods of Briar’s life intertwine like a rope around her neck as her lost year begins to overtake the present. It leads her to the answer to one very simple question:

“Is it what I always feared — am I losing my mind?”

Author Interview

Excerpt

 

G i r l   T a l k

 

“Did you know I spent the whole of my fifteenth year in my room?”

                I sit in the trashed corner booth of an empty Indianapolis diner sipping Coke through a red and white striped straw and watch the reaction from my two friends. 

                We’ve been here, Melodie, Justine and I, talking, eating, and drinking for hours and we’re all in advanced stages of serious twenty-something afternoon collapse. It’s reached the time where you run out of trivial, conversational-type things to talk about, so you say something deep and personal instead.

                Melodie lifts her head from the table and flicks ash haphazardly from her cigarette in the direction of an overflowing ashtray. “You’re kidding?” she asks.

                “No, she isn’t,” Justine says. We’ve been friends since school, and she knows me very well.

                Elbows all over the table I cup my palms around my chin and explain. “I suffered from agoraphobia. That’s what my doctors said. It sounds awful, but all it means is that I had an irrational fear of being in places or situations from which escape might be difficult in the event of a panic attack. So I avoided those situations. During my Dark Ages I left my bedroom only to eat and go to the bathroom.

                “Basically I was worried about death. Abandonment. My health. My mother’s safety. The house catching fire. Food poisoning. Earthquakes. The environment. That kind of stuff.”

                I tell Melodie and Justine all these things, and when I open my mouth the words just flood out, like I’ve been wanting desperately to speak them for so long. They sit and listen, perhaps too tired or too hot and bothered to do anything else. I tell them about the first time it happened… the first time I had a panic attack. When I was thirteen. One Saturday in a mall. I can remember the smell of doughnuts and ice-cream, and ferns. I remember ferns. And the sound of a radio playing that dumb Spandau Ballet song — “True” — boy do I hate that song!

                “I was standing around, just hanging out with a bunch of my girlfriends, and this boy from my class, who I had, like, this incredible crush on, came up to me and said “Hi!”

                “Those girls pushed me forward. I could hear them giggling behind me, saying ‘Briar’s in love’ and all that junk, and my body froze like a statue. I felt hot and sweaty. My heart was racing. I felt this numbness in my hands and this tightness in my chest like I couldn’t breathe. I had this need to breathe in more air, this need to escape. I just ran out.”

                “Shit!” Melodie says.

                “Shit,” I agree. “My doctor said later that this overwhelming sensation of terror is similar to the fight or flight response inherent in all animals, including humans. No one seems to know what causes panic attacks, but there are a lot of tell-tale signs that I had right from an early age. I always used to cling to my mother’s leg. I was afraid of Santa Claus.”

                “Oh yeah,” Melodie says. “I always hated that old, fat, red, pervert too.”

“I suffered a lot of phobias back then,” I explain further. “I would become possessed by a desire to clean the bathroom. The bathroom and I would literally be covered in Comet cleanser. But then I stopped.”

“Why?” Melodie asks. “Did your cleaning phobia go away?”

“Not exactly. I ran out of Comet.”

                Sunlight is pouring in through the diner’s windows and Justine keeps glancing anxiously out there to the street. Am I boring her, I wonder? Anything’s possible — she has heard this one before.

                It’s only then that I suddenly notice the sunglasses she wears at a lopsided angle on her face hide a large bruise around her left eye. It’s a horrible purple thing that’s yellowing at the edges like rotten fruit.

                “Oh there’s Addison,” she says suddenly. “I’d better go. I’d better not keep him waiting.”

                Following her gaze, I see her boyfriend climb from his red Chrysler LeBaron convertible. Addison Healy has tanned skin and swept-back dark hair, and I’ve never liked him. He’s far too handsome — one of those people who’ve never known what it’s like to be alone — because there’s always someone new throwing themselves shamelessly at him. Someone who’s never had to appreciate the smallest signs of affection.

                Justine scoops up her purse, quickly excuses herself, and rushes out to meet him. Leaving a three-quarter full Coke bottle sitting behind on the table, she’s gone almost before I can register it. She’s gone.

                I watch them get into the car. She’s talking. Explaining herself. Addison seems agitated; gesturing wildly and I read his lips: “What fucking time do you call this? I told you to be home at three!”

                Eventually he throws up his arms in frustration and drives away. I turn back to Melodie.

                “Why does she stay with that asshole?” she asks after a long pause. “He hits her, don’t you know?”

                “No?”

                “How do you think she got that bruise on her face?”

                “She said she fell against the… Fuck!” I hadn’t noticed…  well, come to think of it, I have seen signs, but I’ve never put two and two together. Sometimes I wonder if I am so wrapped up in my own problems that I fail to see the suffering of others around me?

                “So what happened with you, Briar?” Melodie asks, toying playfully with the straw in her bottle.

                “With me? Oh, after my first panic attack I returned to school and everyone laughed and talked about me, so I stopped going. Slowly I found it harder and harder to leave the house. After a while I gave up entirely.”

                “When I did eventually emerge from my room, a week shy of my sixteenth birthday, it wasn’t like a beautiful butterfly emerging triumphantly from her chrysalis, but instead a tired gray moth treading cautiously into the light.”

                “My doctor once speculated that my year’s hibernation was due to an irrational fear of growing up, but that’s not right! If I really didn’t want to grow up there are much more reliable methods: sleeping pills, guns, razorblades…”

                “God, so how did you, like, get out of it?”

                “My brother. My brother helped me. Helped me help myself, I guess.”

                “Is this Jeff — twenty-seven and still living at home?”

                “No, it’s Paul — twenty and away at college. You haven’t met… oh shit!”

                And I suddenly remember: Paul’s arriving home today and I said I’d go with Mom to meet him at the airport. As the afternoon dissolved I’ve lost track of time.

                “Is he cute?” Melodie asks as we slip from the diner out onto the pavement.

                I can only nod yes.

                “Can I come too?”

                “No! I’ll see you later!” Melodie is super beautiful. When I first saw her, I wanted to see her again. I hardly ever see really beautiful females. I see pretty ones, hot ones, but hardly ever see a woman that just makes me turn my head and think ‘wow she is stunning.’ I think that people who are attractive just want the world to see something other than their looks. They want other aspects of their personality to shine through. I hate boring people. I hate boring guys. I feel like sometimes if I just be really quirky it will compensate for my lack of looks. Of course this never works.

 

Author Bio

 

Shane grew up in provincial New Zealand, a small place where options are small, were people wear PJs to the mall, a small place where dreams of being a writer or artist are not only actively discouraged, they are actively quashed. Nevertheless he fell in love with books, comics and writing at a young age and his early influences include Oscar Wilde, Alan Moore and Dr Seuss.

After many years of trying to get books, documentaries and films accepted in his own country, Shane gave up and settled for working in the fairly creative world of video-making and advertising.

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A trip to Europe and the USA rekindled his love of writing, and he wrote the American-based novel ‘Exit,’ submitted it this time to American publishers and immediately, received several offers for the work. He chose one and ‘Exit’ will be released December 2nd 2013 in the USA as his first novel from Biblio Publishing.

It is the story of Briar Averill who spent a year trapped in her room, suffering from agophobia. Six years on, she’s free, yet ripples from the year’s isolation still lap at the edges of her life, and that of her friends: Melodie, a pretty valley girl who she wishes she could be… Justine, her oldest friend, who has her own dark secret and Dermot who thinks he’s the reincarnation of Robin Hood — stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Ripples echo down through the years, leading her to the answer to one very simple question: Is it what she always feared — is she losing her mind?

Shane has since had comic book scripts accepted in the UK by DC Thompson, publisher of the long-running ‘Commando’ comic, fulfilling yet another dream for his child-self.

He lives with a very old and very vocal Tonkinese cat, and they both dream of eloping together to the USA or Europe.

He likes oranges, orange juice, and orange furniture — in fact even the color orange. Why? Well, because it’s the best color, of course. While he believes that being a grown up is not all it’s cracked up to be, he still enjoys ruining his appetite before dinner, and staying up past his bed time.

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Theatricks by Eleanor Gwyn-Jones [BookBlitz + Giveaway]

Banner ~ Theatricks

Title: Theatricks

Author: Eleanor Gwyn-Jones

Genre: Contemporary Women’s Fiction/Contemporary Romance

Age Group: 25 – 50

Publication Date: December 3, 2013

Publisher: Omnific Publishing

Event organized by: Literati Author Services, Inc.

Full Jacket ~ Theatricks

 BLURBEnna Petersen has never been good at making personal decisions, particularly when she has to choose between her passions. As a theater director, the stage is her world, the spotlight her vitamin D, the waft of greasepaint her oxygen. However, when her handsome American businessman boyfriend proposes and paints the picture of a luxurious life in Pennsylvania, she has to tear her heart in two and give up on her theatrical dreams.

But as she navigates the visa gauntlet at the US embassy in England, she meets Will, a charismatic, erudite actor who encourages her to not give up on her dilapidated and much beloved theater. She is torn, tormented by the thought that her departure will certainly lead to Ashtead Theatre’s demise, but she follows her heart, says goodbye to her homeland, and begins her new role as Cole’s fiancée in America.

However, homesickness soon strikes. Enna longs for the English countryside, her theater, and the passion that Will has inspired in her. After her American dreams fall apart, she is reunited with all three back in the UK, and with Will’s help, she soon finds her theater more successful than she ever thought possible. She has everything she’s ever wanted, including a gorgeous man in her bed to share it with, so why is it she can’t stop thinking about Cole?

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Theatricks Character Casting

Enna – Me, oh that’s sounds so narcissistic, doesn’t it?  But my background was in acting and my mother always encouraged me to write a vehicle for me.  Well, ta dah!

But, if Hollywood declined and wanted a known British actress, Michelle Dockery, from Downton Abbey has that strength and vulnerability to play Enna.  She is physically how I imagined her too.

Will – Did you see Chris Hemsworth playing James Hunt in Rush?  That’s Will.  Yes, he’s Australian, but his British accent is flawless.  He is charismatic and just sparkles with sex appeal.  Will has dark, curls, but I am sure we could fix that!  Or so I thought… but then I saw a picture of Henry Cavill in the Tudors this morning and it knocked my socks off!  Now, that is exactly how Will should look in his puffy Shakespearian shirt!   I suppose I’d have to audition them both and see which one could rap best!  Let the rap battle commence!

Cole – Cole is quietly powerful, the brooding Byronesque hero.  I have always imagined Ben Affleck playing Cole.  He has that American dream wholesomeness about him, that gentlemanly quality that Cole needs, whilst still being a very manly man.

Lucy – Rosamund Pike, would play a fabulous Lucy, intrepidly touring the world and being quintessentially British doing it!

Kay, Enna’s mum – Cherie Lunghi.  She is such a beautiful, classical actress to watch and has that enthusiastic quality and passion for life that Kay brings.

Enna’s Dad – Michael Caine.  He has that retired yet military bearing and I can picture him smoking a cigar and listening to jazz in the kitchen with Enna.

Leo, Enna’s brother —  Matthew Goode.  He has that cheeky mischievous sparkle in his eye that Leo needs as he mercilessly teases his sister.

 

 

BIO

Eleanor Gwyn-Jones lives in Scranton, Pennsylvania, but originally hails from Surrey, England. Huzzah! She studied biology at Southampton University before taking to the stage as an actress, agent and administrator of a touring theatre compaAuthor Picny. She performed in theatres, studios, schools and festivals across the British Isles before moving to the States. It was whilst visa-dangling and unable to take on acting work that she started to write and decided she far preferred it to anything else in the world! In 2008, Eleanor started her own ‘at home’ business to afford her more time to be with her ‘book babies.’ Now she spends her time writing by day and teaching ladies to look fabulous at night. She is a travel junkie—it’s research, darling, research!—a gourmand, a yogi, a sometime blogger and she adores her family and friends beyond all measure. She is currently putting the finishing key strokes to the sequel to Theatricks, due for release in 2014.

If she weren’t writing, she’d like to think you’d find her in Downton, The Paradise, or having a goblet of wine with Tyrion in King’s Landing.

Connect with the Author: Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

 

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Dearhart Clan Series [The Call From Within – The Call From Desire & Heated Calls From Change] by Eri Nelson [BookBlitz]

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Dearhart

The Call From Within
Dearhart Clan Series

Book One

Eri Nelson

Genre: Fiction/Fantasy/

Action/Adult/Erotic

Publisher: EAN LLC

Date of Publication: July 2 2011

ISBN:  978-1461156871

ASIN:  B005FYSXI2

Number of pages: 84

Word Count: 15,173

Cover Artist: Richard Roberts

 

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Dearhart Clan is a series of fast paced books that dabble in the world of paranormal and remain in the erotic pulse of what can only be classified as a primal fantasy.  If it’s a typical romance you’re looking for you won’t find it in this series.

Eri Nelson writes in a darker world where heat and need are the forefront for a slipping existence.  There is not time for all the tenderness love deserves but if you’re imprinted to another you are far beyond those mortal requirements.

 Our author is driven by swift action packed intrigues that often leave you wanting more.  As she writes each new book into the series the number of pages might increase but the action never lets you feel the increasing distance to the final page.

 The Call From Within is Eri Nelson’s first look into this series.  It is here that we meet Owen our Pack’s clan leader.  He has been driven by what is expected of an alpha.  Facts that were told through the decades all but look like fiction to him now.  So he never dared to believe in fate and only let duty push him forth.  Although now his resolves make no sense and it took little to no time at all in showing him through the lust he feels for another.

Kristen Still bares the imprinted mark to our handsome alpha.  However he wasn’t the first to notice what she was and it’s that bedding of prior passions that control her new weakness.  Yes, Owen is pushed by jealousy to possess what his four footed insight tells him is his.

A former distraction wanted more than heated moments with Kristen.  In her he saw a stronger life force for his young and if Brinston Drake must he would take what he needs from her.  He just did not foresee another finding her as well.

While the rest of Eri Nelson’s cast of characters find their selves caught up in furthering personal existences. Another by the name of Wash seeks to use their distractions as his gain.  A rogue sent to track and update, Wash is tested by his hatred and desire for revenge.  He’ll have it but not as quickly as he would like.  But soon enough Owen will slip farther into his madness over a bitch in heat.  Then Wash perhaps can use the heated vixen to distract both her and the alpha into their future demise.

 

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Double Call From Desire

Dearhart Clan Series

Book Two

Eri Nelson

Genre: Fiction/ Fantasy/ Action/Adult/Erotic

Publisher: EAN LLC

Date of Publication:  July 21 2012

 ISBN: 978-1478256991

ASIN: B006GV7Z50

 Number of pages: 150

Word Count: 24, 801

Cover Artist: Eri Nelson & Katie Nelson

 

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The DHC, Dearhart Clan Series, is a continuing saga that borders on several genres to create what I like to class as dark primal adult paranormal fantasies. In my opinion, the DHC is very erotic but does not fully go into erotica for there are many more aspects I like to let the reader discover from the characters.

Once again, you will encounter Owen Dearhart and his mate Kristen who for a second time find themselves facing obstacles that not only intervene but take away what Owen now finds worth more than the pack itself.

 As per request Thomas Dearhart is sent by Owen to track down what they think is a rogue Werewolf. All the while unbeknownst to him, one of their own is taken from the pack. However with knowledge not known a mission at hand takes Thomas finding himself discovering more than what they assumed was a wolf gone astray. It will be this newly discovered venture that will put heat in his loins and a refusal to fully except what is in front of him.

With what seems like destiny fulfilling before him, Wash withers in revenge’s control and takes it upon himself to go further in the mouth of evil for support. So with vengeance as his goal Wash goes back to Opts where Yvone fully intends to arbitrate his ruthless control over not only the situation but Wash as well.

As a cast of characters emerge fighting not only their inner turmoil but those wishing to take them down it should be of no surprise that a few extra faces are now tossed into this dark and desperate world of the unknowns, where the urges of the beast weigh even heavier on their still looming demise.

 

 dearhart 3

 

Heated Calls From Change

Dearhart Clan Series

Book Three

Eri Nelson

Genre: Fiction/Fantasy/

Action/Adult/Erotic

 Publisher: EAN LLC

Date of Publication: December 10, 2012

 

ISBN: 978-1481137782

ASIN: B006GV7Z50

 

Number of pages: 178

Word Count: 31,122

 

Cover Artist: Eri Nelson

 

Book Trailer:

 

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This third book is far darker than its predecessors, venturing down a path that will ultimately have readers at the door to another series, INK.

Owen and Kristen wage the war of captivities’ control and fight all obstacles to find their ways back to each other. However, neither will ever be the same and brink on the lines of death to see each other once again.

Julia caught in loss will form a bond with an unexpected new life now swaddled around her. While Thomas resolves his needs and wants, to having it all with his mate.

From Forest’s winter attire, comes a new face that hides well and kills even better. But she will not hide as her destiny arrives on the back of a wolf named Bry. For she and he were destined to carry the upcoming change of the werewolves world.

As revenge smolders still in the mind of Wash, he will be faced with the battle of his life and more importantly the man who will soon control all the werewolves’ fates.

BIO

Eri Nelson born Erica Walcott is a Indie Author and the youngest of three in a family of five. Erica became Eri (airy) from her mother who called her that for as long as she could remember. The short take on her name took on a more solid base with the love of her life and husband, Jeff Nelson.

Together they have been for the past twenty years. Within that time they were able to raise one daughter and endless amount of pets.

Eri Nelson is a nontraditional indie author who manages all areas of her fiction, fantasy, paranormal, action, adventure and sometimes-erotic writing. Eri handles all the groundwork of her books, even the editing. Because of this Eri strives to improve her abilities along with trying to explain to readers her far from traditional sentence structures. However, she will openly admit that typos follow her.Untitled

Writing is a passion for her and an abundance of never ending joy. Only one thing tops that for Eri… and that is when a reader enjoys the read……

Join Eri and her shadowy side of writing as she takes you along to explore new desire hunger filled worlds where your mind can share in the heat of the read.

 

 

Doyle After Death by John Shirley [BookBlitz + Giveaway]

Banner ~ Doyle After Death

 

 

 

Cover ~ Doyle After Death

Title:   Doyle After Death

Author:  John Shirley

Genre: Fiction/Mystery/Detective

Publication Date:  October 22, 2013

Publisher:  Witness Impulse, an imprint of HarperCollins

Event organized by: Literati Author Services, Inc.

 

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From award-winning author John Shirley comes an inventive whodunit featuring the master of mysteries, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

When Nicholas Fogg, an unsuccessful private investigator, dies on the job, he learns that the afterlife is not what he expected. Disappointed—but not too surprised—to find himself in the very dead town of Garden Rest, he befriends the famous Arthur Conan Doyle to crack a case from beyond the grave and solve the ultimate riddle: Is it possible to be murdered if you are already dead?

 

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 Before I ever met Doyle or Brummigen or the Lamplighter … I died.

I was lying on the grungy orange carpet of my room in Las Vegas. I lay on my left side, on a floor in a tired, sad hotel on a hadn’t quite made it onto the bed. I was lying on the floor beside it, in the blue light side street just off the Strip. I coming through the window from the casino sign. I’d gone to sleep there, curled up fully dressed. I awoke for a whole minute, before the end—choking, unable to get a breath, dizzy. I was drowning—drowning in the oiliness of entropy itself.

Everything seemed to get narrow. My vision, my feelings, were squeezed by the pressure in my chest, compressed to a narrow aperture, down to a little feebly glowing oval, which shrank to a piercing point of light … the light began to spin … churning the darkness around it. A roaring tunnel sucking me through it headfirst …

I had exactly one thought: So this is dying.

A silence. A feeling of infinite weight. Falling.

Then—a sudden, jolting stop.

A moment later there was a sound.

It was a rising susurration, a hissing … which I slowly recognized as the sound of waves on the beach …

I opened my eyes. I was once more lying on my left side, but this time it was on pale sand in the gray light of dawn. The feeling of heaviness was still there; it dissipated as I sat slowly up on the edge of a deep purple sea. The sun had just edged up into the starless, Bible-black sky edging the horizon with silvery gauze.

I got to my feet and took stock.

It was a little chilly but not cold. I had no idea where I was—but I was calm. The calmness seemed to settle on me, with the faint mist from the sea.

The sun … was that, in fact, a sun?

Yes, it seemed to be a sun—sort of. But the sun here looks as if you’re peering through a telescope at a distant star. It is a coruscating circle of blue-white light without glare. I could look right at it and it didn’t hurt my eyes. And yet I could feel its warmth.

I knew, somehow—with a dead-reckoned internal certainty—that I was facing west, gazing out to sea, with the north on my right, and the sun was rising over the sea. So—the sun was rising in the west. Which should be impossible.

As I write this, now, long after, I wonder that I thought anything should be impossible. I’d died and had come to life somewhere else. As Bertram would say, all bets were off.

I knew, even then, that it wasn’t a dream. I was too present, too self-aware to be in a dream. And … I knew I had died. Something made that quite clear, quite firmly, and without words. I felt no distinct external metaphysical presence—I saw no angels, no devils, no glowering, bearded God. No Jesus, no Prophet Muhammad, no Buddha waited in this afterlife for me—at least not here. There was just the sound of waves, the strangely pristine smell of the sea and the sand under my feet. I’d always thought of death as a time when all mysteries are unlocked, and ultimately truths immediately revealed. But I was simply alone on a beach.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Anyone around? Can we skip the suspense and get on with the judgment? Or … whatever you do here.” I waited.

No response except the faint, mocking echo of my own voice.

I cleared my throat, called to the sky, shouting louder. “Look, if I’m gonna reincarnate—let’s get ’er done! I could use a vacation in a warm uterus! What do you say?”

No answer. Unless you want to count the wind rising a little, and subsiding, leaving only the sea’s endless respiration.

In the distance the fog roiled, easing ponderously along. I heard the sigh of the sea and the squeak of my boots in the sand just as I would in life. The ocean itself made me think of that classical expression, “the wine-dark sea.” But this one almost looked like it really was a blue-red wine; almost the color of Concord grape juice with shades of burgundy and amethyst lights.

“Nobody to talk to but myself,” I muttered. “That could be hell, right there.” I don’t care that much for my own company.

I tried once more, cupping my hands as I shouted, “You sure? No choirs, nothing? I know this is the afterlife, here, damn …” I started to say “damn it” and decided it wouldn’t be politic to refer to damning. “Anybody … anything … going to clue me in?”

I waited …

Nothing. That phone line was dead; that number was disconnected. I had been transported, it seemed to the very heart of mystery.

I shrugged and started walking along the beach, heading in the direction that felt like north. I don’t know why I picked that direction. The sky above me was mostly clear, except for a few parallel ribbons of cloud. I could see thunderheads edging along a few miles north, rumbling faintly, trailing a gray curtain of rain. I traipsed along the clean uncluttered white beach toward the rolling fog.

As I slogged along toward the wall of haze, I was thinking that maybe this was all the passing vision of a dying man before complete and final blackness. I felt no distress, no fear—so why not enjoy this hallucination?

To my right the beach rose gently to meet chalky bluffs. The strands of clouds reaching to the west took on a dawn rosiness. The distance was layered in pallid mist, shading down to pearly gray, then the filmy dun of the beach. It was almost like walking into an art deco amphitheater.

Some distance off to the north, a shape took form in the mist. Someone was walking along the beach toward me, and I wondered if I should be afraid.

It was a woman’s shape—the silhouette was quite definitely female—and I watched with fascination as she approached me. She was in no hurry, her gait showing no indecision. When she got closer I saw a pallid, shapely woman with long, straight black hair, and bangs. Her long hair spilled over her pale shoulders. She wore a wedding dress trimmed in white lace. The dress was spottily torn at the seams, discolored with age, and tattered about the ankles. Her pale, slender feet were bare. Her oval face was rueful and placid, her lips red and firm, but her dark green eyes seemed older than the rest of her face. A slight breeze fluttered the ends of her long hair.

She waved once, as she walked up, and smiled like an airline hostess. This close, I saw that her fingernails were raggedly broken, though some of their dark red nail polish remained.

I could see fine blue veins in her arms; in her throat and cleavage.

“And here you are,” she said, coming to a stop a long stride away.

“Yeah, well …” I shrugged. “I seem to be here, anyway,” I said. “I’m Nicholas Fogg …”

She put her left hand on her hip, toyed with the ends of her hair with the other slender hand as she looked me over.

A little uncomfortable under the frankness of her assessment, I said, “This is probably where you say, ‘I know who you are.’ ”

“Why would I say that? I had no idea what your name was. I’m no more telepathic than anyone else, you know.”

“Thought I was going to be alone on this beach forever. You hear me shouting?”

“I heard something, but I couldn’t hear what you were saying. Too far off.”

“Anyway—you’re the one with the answers?”

She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Me? Not hardly! I have a few suggestions, and a fact or two, is all. I’m just a greeter. The town likes to have someone greet people.”

“The town?”

She nodded, and looked me up and down. “What’d you say your name was? Nicholas Fogg …?”

“Yeah. Or Nick.”

“Really!” She shook her head in amusement. “Such a theatrical name! We usually get fellas with names like Joe Kowalsky or Tyrone Johnson or Kyu Kim or Schlomo Cohen or Larry Barbarosa. Once we had a Hamish Chung. He went forgetter, though.” She looked out to sea. “Nobody else this morning? We’re really getting fewer and fewer souls, lately. Could be we’re almost at some local population limit. The newcomers at Garden Rest are down to a trickle.”

Maybe I should have been afraid of her. She was, after all, a mysterious figure in the afterlife. For all I knew, she might turn into a demon … if there were demons here. But she was pretty. And, more important, I felt no fear in her company. I instinctively trusted her.

(Not that there’s nothing to fear in the afterlife. There is. But I didn’t know what it was, at the time.)

“So few people arriving,” she said, stretching, making her hands into tidy little fists. “Maybe I can take some time off.”

“What would you take time off from?” I asked.

Her mouth twisted wryly. “Being a greeter, silly. And related stuff. I’d much rather be at home weaving. I’m making a mural out of creeper threads, in my place down in the rain. When I have time.”

I was trying to place her accent. Maybe New England. “You know my name …”

“Oh, I’m Fiona. My husband and I drowned—in the 1940s. The cliff road collapsed on the way to the honeymoon. That’s the short version.” She seemed bored with the explanation. “I know you want to ask about the wedding dress.” She ran her hands over her hips, as if it were the first time she’d tried the dress on. “I could change the dress, if I wanted to. Most people eventually shift out of their death clothes, but—I just feel it gives me a really appropriate costume for the job. And it’s good to have a sense of personal style.”

“You and your husband drowned?” I looked down the beach, half expecting to see him strolling toward us. “He’s here?”

“No … well, yes.” She frowned at the ground, dug a toe in the sand and made a little circle with it. “He’s … around. But he went a bit native in the swamps. I think he’s in another afterland, by now. He always was nutty. You can’t bring much with you, into the afterlife … except your nuttiness. Your state of mind.” She cleared her throat. “And a few things in your pockets, maybe.”

I looked at the beach behind her, thinking I’d see no footprints, since she was a spirit. But her footprints were there.

She looked sharply up at me as if a thought suddenly struck her. “Oh—do you have a cigarette?”

“I … doubt it.” I made a show of patting my pockets. I had cut back on smoking for health reasons. I know—it’s ironic. “Sorry. People bring cigarettes … here? I thought you couldn’t ‘take it with you.’ Whatever … ‘it’ might be.”

“Told you, you can bring what’s in your pockets. Even money. But money from the Before is worthless here. Some things from there are useful.” She pointed at my shirt. “If you can bring your clothes, why not your cigarettes?” She was pouting a little, disappointed I hadn’t brought any smokes. “Some people are what they’re wearing. Anyway, people bring what’s in their pockets.” She glanced at my pockets, as if trying to see the bulge of a cigarette pack. “It’s not the actual object you had in pre-death, though, it’s a—what would you say—a reproduction out of afterlife stuff. But you can’t tell the difference. And you can fabricate things here, too—some things. Mr. Doyle calls that formulation. But”—she blew out a long breath, as if exhaling imaginary cigarette smoke—“no one’s managed making cigarettes here yet. Haven’t found any tobacco.” She looked toward the sea, adding wistfully, “I used to smoke Chesterfields. I smoked a cigarette, right here, almost on this spot, about seven years ago. A really nice jazz musician gave it to me when he got here. It was one of those funny ‘light’ cigarettes the people back on Earth have, now. Marlboro Light, I think it was called.”

“Seven years ago?” I was about to ask her if time really flowed the same way here as before we died, but she made a dismissive motion, anticipating a question that was too much trouble to answer. (I’ve since found that people do that a lot in the afterlife. They figure you’ll work it out for yourself.)

“Never mind, just come on,” she said. “I have some things I have to do. So—be welcome, and all that, and, you know, just … make yourself at home. I can’t answer any questions about God and afterlife and judgment, if there is any of that stuff, because I don’t have a fucking clue, excuse my French. And I’m supposed to tell you …” She ticked the things she had to tell me on her fingers.  “…that this is the afterlife, or the afterworld as most of us call it. It’s the afterworld for people from the planet Earth, anyway. You chose this particular locale of the afterlife, in some way, just before you got here. Without knowing you chose it. And, it’ll be your home for a pretty long time. And if you wander a long ways out of it, then you have a greater risk of encountering predators. And yes you have died but that doesn’t mean you’ve passed beyond all danger. There is danger here. Especially from people. But—most people I’ve met here are friendly. You may or may not meet people you know. Oh and there’s no real disease here, no senility; people are restored to good function. But you will need rest from time to time. Less than on the … less than back on Earth. There, that’s my main job, saying welcome and telling you all that—and to point you toward the trail that goes to town.”

“I’m supposed to go to a town?”

“Yup. I mean, only if you want to. The town of Garden Rest”—she smiled wryly, and nodded toward the ocean—“on the scenic Purple Sea.”

“Suppose I want to be a beach bum—or take a long, long, long swim out to sea.”

She smiled. “You can do that! But it’s more comfortable in town. You may as well look it over. Come on …”

She started toward the bluff, headed to a narrow path threading between two stony prominences, and I followed.

I found myself watching the sway of her walk—and I felt desire. So that was part of the afterlife, too. How far did that go? Was there physical copulation? Did people get pregnant? Did they have babies? Biological birth seemed unlikely.

This was the afterlife … but it was also a real, physical place. I could even feel the awkwardness of trudging in cowboy boots on beach sand. We went at a good pace and I never got really out of breath, though I hadn’t been in good shape my last year of life.

Mostly I’d spent that year sitting in crappy used cars and watching splintery motel-room doors, or following people on disability to photograph them playing tennis. When I wasn’t trying to scratch out a living as a detective, I’d lie about in my studio apartment, watching old movies on TV and drinking. Thinking about how I’d failed at being a poet, a serious novelist, had a BA in literature but couldn’t get through the teaching degree part, couldn’t make a living even teaching English. That had been my plan: day job teaching, make my name writing.

I tried. For a while. Couldn’t write anything I wanted to even try to publish; couldn’t get the degree.

I liked to read Hammett and Chandler and James M. Cain and Richard Stark and John D. MacDonald and Robert B. Parker and, going back, Arthur Conan Doyle. So I thought, why not get a private investigator’s license?

So I did, in Las Vegas. I almost made a living at it. Sometimes. But pretty much—my short career as a detective was just another failure.

And that last year I sat in the bars or in front of my flickering television, and contemplated my failure. Every so often I seemed to hear my old man’s voice: “You can’t make it on your own, there’s always the Marines. Worked for me. I needed help and they gave it to me.

The Marines. Me? Right.

Come to think of it I did do something else, that last year: I listened to music. Okay, so it was in a bar. I sat on a bar stool at Jinky Jake’s, in southwest Vegas, and listened to their antiquated jukebox. Not one of those modern systems that take music off the internet—but a real old jukebox with old vinyl records in it. It played scratchy old 1940s music. I loved bebop and big band and New Orleans trad jazz and western swing. I’d sit on that bar stool, trying to decide if I would spend my last three dollars on juke music or on their cheapest beer.

It hadn’t been a good year.

And now I was dead, walking on a sandy path in the afterlife.

Fiona and I got to the top of the trail, slowly ascending into brighter daylight. We paused and I looked over the prospect inland. A notch in the bluff led to a shallow valley enfolded by a mix of darkly lush maples and oaks. A body of clear water lay mirrorlike to the south; to the north, curtains of rain rippled softly. In between, a small town was spread out below us. Most of the houses were old-fashioned colonial-style cottages, some of them oddly proportioned. It reminded me of woodcuts I’d seen of early villages in western Massachusetts, some little burg Ben Franklin and his cronies would visit.

“That’s Main Street, right there,” Fiona said. “Follow that to the downtown area. There’s a boardinghouse, a two-story brick place with ivy on it—you can’t miss it. You can stay in that for now, if you want. I’d stay out of the swamp to the south, if I was you—at least don’t go there alone. And if you go north”—she pointed north, where the hills rose steeply to a series of ridges cloaked in low cloud—“keep your eyes open. Some up there are good people, but some …” She shrugged with one shoulder. “We have some crazies here, too.”

I had a lot of questions and opened my mouth—but she shook her head and raised a hand. “Enough for now.”

I chuckled. “Okay, Fiona. I hope I’ll be seeing you around.”

“You will. I’m a sort of mascot here.”

“Listen—can I ask … couldn’t all this—I mean what I’m experiencing—couldn’t it be one of those hallucinations from … like when the brain’s running out of oxygen? Next there’ll be a tunnel and then a light and then … light’s out.”

“No. Didn’t you already pass through a tunnel?” she asked.

“Now that you mention it—yeah.”

“Believe in this place, Nick. ’Cause it’s real and it’s solid. I mean, some of us call the Earth the ‘dirt world,’ but the afterworld has its own dirt.” She stomped once on the ground for emphasis. “Solid, too. You’ll see. I’ve been here about sixty-five years. And the light’s never gone out yet. I mean, it gets dark, but not like you would think.” She turned her gaze down the dark sea. “I’ve got so I like it here. Mostly.”

She smiled self-mockingly, toyed with her hair, and then turned back toward the beach. She started down the hill. I watched her descend into the mist, hoping she’d turn and wave to me. She didn’t.

When I lost sight of her, I turned and walked the other way, down into the valley.

I thought, The Valley of the Shadow of Death?

But there wasn’t much shadow of death in the valley. Mostly, I’ve found, Garden Rest is a nice place. Except for the occasional murder.

BIO

John Shirley is the author of numerous books and many, many short stories. His novels include Bleak HistoryCrawlersDemonsIn Darkness Waiting, and seminal cyberpunk works City Come A-Walkin’, and the A Song Called Youth trilogy of Eclipse, Eclipse Penumbra, and Eclipse Corona. His collections include the Bram Stoker and International Horror Guild award-winning Black Author PictureButterfliesLiving Shadows: Stories: New & Pre-owned, and In Extremis: The Most Extreme Short Stories of John Shirley. He also writes for screen (The Crow) and television. As a musicianShirley has fronted his own bands and written lyrics for Blue Öyster Cult and others.

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