Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Ghost by Dana Cask #mc #romance @changelingpress

 

(Shiva’s Road MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Interracial & Multicultural

Date Published: March 22, 2024

 

 

 

Ghost -- Against my better judgment, I went to Chicago to meet my father. Instead I find a sexy siren who’s fighting a daily struggle to survive. I claim her for my own the first chance I get, but that’s when our troubles really start. She won’t leave without my sister Rachel, her best friend, and I’m a long way from home and my brothers. When the bad guys attack, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them both.

Simone -- I need a way out. When Ghost arrives, I take a chance and ask him for help. But he’s the son of the man who sells my body. I don’t know how far I can trust him. My life and Rachel’s hang in the balance. Ghost says he wants me by his side forever. I’m trusting him with our lives, but can I trust him with my heart?

 

 



EXCERPT


Ghost

“This place is something else,” Beowulf said over the sound of their idling bikes.

Ghost didn’t respond, knowing his best friend didn’t expect him to. He just stared at the place his mother had called home for the last twenty-five years. The McMansion and surrounding grounds presented a vulgar display of wealth against the suburban Chicago backdrop. The pink granite drive wound around the two-story house, lit by spotlights in the center of the immaculately manicured lawn. In bright sunlight, he’d no doubt need darker shades to withstand the glare of the mica-flecked walls and white shutters. He’d known about the setup from the intel Bytes had gathered on his father before they left the compound in Central Ohio, but seeing it in person shocked the man who had grown up dirt poor in a single-wide trailer on the Mescalero Apache Tribe Reservation.

“Name,” snapped a male voice from a box built into the brick column to the left of the wrought black iron gate.

“Lucas Blackfoot,” Ghost replied. His voice sounded rusty, even to his own ears.

“You were told to come alone.”

Ghost shrugged, sure the security cameras would pick up his response.

After a long pause, the voice instructed, “Park your motorcycles in the open garage bay. You will be met at the interior door. Do not enter without an escort or you will be shot.”

“Friendly type, your Pops.” Wulf chuckled.

Ghost let his unease out by revving his old Harley. The Knucklehead vibrated the ground as the gate with a stylized W in the center pulled back to allow them entrance. They followed the drive to the right of the house, moving at a slow pace on the loose gravel, and found the place they were to leave their bikes without issue.

Almost as soon as they swung their legs over the fenders, a door at the far end of the far end of the garage opened. A limo occupied one bay. Midlife crisis cars sat in the remaining two, each of which probably cost more than Ghost had seen during his entire childhood.

A large, bald man in a black suit he couldn’t button over his flabby stomach -- a security drudge so stereotypical as to be laughable -- motioned them to come closer.

“What do you wanna bet he gets handsy?” Wulf said loud enough to be overheard.

Ghost grunted. This was gonna suck. He had planned to get in and out as quickly as possible, having minimal interaction with his sperm donor.

“Which one of you is Blackfoot?” the guard asked as they approached.

Like that wasn’t obvious. Even a toddler could tell the black-haired Native American from the Nordic blond. “I am,” Ghost replied.

“Your… companion… can wait here.” The guard put a wealth of innuendo into the word companion, still trying to get a rise out of him.

“No.” Ghost didn’t make a threatening move, but he wasn’t going into this house alone. He’d never spoken to Donald P. Willard, never went looking for his parents after his mother left the Reservation when he was eight. His father should be happy he’d only brought his best friend for backup. No way in hell would he allow himself to be separated from Wulf this early in the game.

“You come alone, or you don’t come at all.”

“Fine,” said Wulf, “We’ll be home in our beds by morning then.”

The dumbass reached out to grab Ghost by the arm. “I said --”

Ghost grabbed the guard’s hand by the thumb and bent it back. When the man tried to twist out of his grip, Ghost held on long enough to make sure the man knew Ghost was choosing to release him.

Another man, this one a little older and in better shape than the first, appeared in the doorway. “Problem?”

“He doesn’t want to come quietly, boss,” Dumbass said.

“Let him bring his little friend if it makes him feel better,” the new arrival replied. “I’m sure they won’t cause any trouble. Right, boys?”

“We’re housebroken,” Wulf assured him. “Can’t say the same for your team though. Need a lesson in manners.”

“Boss” stared at them for a few beats, then turned on his heel and walked back into the house. His lapdog followed, leaving Ghost and Wulf to take up the rear. As soon as they cleared the doorway, another man came up behind them, closing the door and walking practically on their heels. They moved through the mostly dark house in that formation until they reached a closed door with soft light spilling through around the cracks.

A knock on the door received a curt, “Enter.”

A hand on his back pushed Ghost ahead of Wulf into the room. No less opulent than the rest of the house, the study had dark built-in shelves at the back wall and thick, velvet green drapes bracketing the floor-to-ceiling windows along the side. Donald P. Willard sat behind a polished walnut desk. A Tiffany desk lamp illuminated Donald’s thick features and extremely short-cropped, graying hair. His hands were laced together in front of him, resting over a sizeable belly straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. His blue suit jacket hung on the back of his leather executive chair. The picture of a prominent light-skinned black businessman, surrounding himself with obvious signs of wealth and opulence. Ghost was pretty sure it was all a front, meant to impress.

“Son, please have a seat. The rest of you are dismissed,” Donald said.

The three bodyguards tried to grab Wulf to remove him bodily from the room, but he evaded their grasps and sat down on the green leather sofa which rested against a creamy damask wallpaper. “I think I’ll stay. I like it here,” Wulf said mildly.

“This is a private conversation between my son and myself. Please do us the courtesy of letting us have this family moment,” Donald replied.

Wulf looked to Ghost, who gave him a slight nod. Beowulf could take care of himself, and it didn’t seem like anyone was going to talk in front of his friend.

“Come on, boys. Show me the kitchen. I could use a snack after the long ride.” Wulf jumped up from the couch and led the way out into the hall.

Once they were alone and the door shut, Donald gave Ghost an appraising glance. “You look like your mother.”

Ghost knew what he meant. His father’s African American heritage didn’t show much in Ghost’s features. There didn’t seem much point in replying so Ghost didn’t bother.

Donald sighed. “Have a seat, son. We have a lot to talk about.”

Ghost sat in one of the chairs in front of Donald’s desk that matched the leather sofa. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. Still, he said nothing. He’d learned a long time ago prolonged silence had a way of getting people to start rambling just to fill the void.

“I have to say, your existence came as quite a shock to me. In all the years I’ve been married to Caroline, she never once mentioned you. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Has she ever contacted you since she left the Reservation?”

“No.”

“I’ve always wanted a son to carry on my legacy. Surely, she would have known I’d have welcomed you with open arms.”

Ghost shrugged. His mother had signed over custody of him to his grandfather when she left, giving no explanation. His memories of her were happy, but dim. He couldn’t say why his mother did what she did, and wouldn’t tell this man even if he did know. He owed this man nothing.

“Did she tell you anything about me before she left? Anything at all?”

“No.” Ghost knew he sounded like a broken record but really what was there to say? He’d received word of his mother’s death from a lawyer, closely followed by a summons from Donald P. Willard to discuss her “affairs.” Ghost already regretted his decision to come here and couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.

“Man of few words, eh? I can respect that. Too many people don’t stand by their word these days. I’m not one of those. Old school to the core, just like my daddy.” He probably practiced his “trust me” smile in the mirror. Ghost wasn’t falling for it.

“Why am I here?” He knew why, but he wanted to see how the other man would spin it.

“I wanted to meet you, talk to you. I am your father, after all.”

“Are you sure?” Ghost was. Bytes had done the research. Donald’s name wasn’t listed on his birth certificate, but his mother had left a letter with his grandfather. The old man never said a word, but the document had been among his things given to the tribal leaders upon his death. An old friend read it to him over the phone. His father had been a high roller at one of the casinos on tribal land. His mother worked there and caught his eye. Eventually they started a relationship. She got pregnant. Eight years later, she left the Reservation to be his wife.

“Of course, I am. Your mother was faithful to me, even before we married. Or are you trying to tell me you know otherwise?” The thought seemed to anger him.

“No.”

“Well then, there you are. You’re my son. And I’d like to think we could have a good relationship now that we know about each other.”

Ghost almost said no again, just to see what the other man would do, but managed to stop himself. Instead, he changed tracks. “Your letter promised legal action if I didn’t show. That’s not very… fatherly.”

“That was before I got to know you. My security team did a little digging. Can’t blame a man for wanting to get to know all about a son he suddenly finds out about, can you? And now I know you’ve served your country well, but you’ve fallen on hard times. That motorcycle club you’re with, well, I’d like to see my son socializing with a better class of people. I can and will help you there.”

“No.” The word came out fast and emphatic. Shiva’s Road MC was his family now. Not this man.

“OK, OK, I can see I’m moving too fast for you. A habit in my business. You don’t make money letting grass grow under your feet!”

Donald’s business, according to Bytes, barely paid the mortgage on this eyesore these days. Donald’s father had been a solid contractor for large scale buildings in downtown Chicago. But cutting corners to underbid other contractors, shoddy supplies, and other bad business practices had given the family business a bad name. Donald scrambled to cover his monthly debts and if he didn’t hire better lawyers, he’d be facing jail time. Then there was the little matter of his gambling debts…

Instead of replying right away, Ghost let his attention drift around the office. There were business books, decanters containing various kinds of alcohol with the usual glasses, and several framed pictures. One of the pictures caught his eye. Two young women were laughing with their arms around each other in front of a fountain. One had black hair, dusky skin and a more than passing resemblance to Donald. She must be Rachael, his half-sister.

The other woman -- he didn’t recognize her -- was nothing less than stunning. Platinum-blonde hair surrounded her tanned face in a halo as the sunshine poured down on her, seeming to illuminate her from within. The red top she wore hugged her more-than-a-handful breasts and rode up enough to show a strip of her belly. The matching skirt flared out from curvy hips that begged to be gripped with his large hands and held onto for a wild ride. Though he couldn’t tell the exact color of her eyes from the photograph, they seemed to sparkle with mischief. And her full lips, painted the same red as her shirt, were a form of temptation all their own. He wanted to lick and suck and taste every inch of her. His cock came to life behind his zipper as he studied the image. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to a woman, let alone one he’d seen only in a picture, in his life.


About the Author

Every book is a mystery to Dana. Whether it’s writing one or reading one, she delves into the who, what, when, where and why with a thirst for knowledge. Getting to know the characters and following their journey as it unfolds gives her a thrill she hasn’t been able to duplicate in any other activity. She’s been known to devour as many as three books in a day, and would write until her fingers bled if her muses allowed.

Although Dana is just getting started on her publishing career, please join her on Facebook and Goodreads, and visit her website often as her MC collection grows to see what Dana has in store for her readers next!

 

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Once We Were Witches by Laura Daleo #supernatural #fiction #giveaway

 

Immortal Kiss Series, Book 4


Supernatural Fiction

Date Published: 03-08-2024

 

 

The mysterious world of witchcraft, murder, and mystery thrusts Raven Sagestone into an adventure whose main goal is to unlock the secrets of her powers. To do this, she teams up with Brandon Cass, an outsider with knowledge of the supernatural world. Raven is introduced to Eve, a psychic who reads destinies. Despite this, Raven is protected by a strong magic barrier, preventing Eve from seeing her. Brandon and Raven search for the truth at Bloodthirst, a vampire club. Visiting The Council's haven with Margarete and Caleb is Raven's chance to find answers to the questions that have plagued her.

 

Excerpt

Chapter 1

 

A breaking news alert flashed on the TV screen as I bit into my bagel.

As the reporter stood by, the camera panned over to the lifeless body of a young woman hanging from a tree branch. “Witch” was carved into her gray, blood-stained forehead. He sighed and hung his head. “A seventh victim has been added to the list.”

I shoved my bagel aside as a sick feeling gripped my stomach. My heart ached as I stared at the girl’s lifeless face. How could someone be so cruel and sadistic? This was not just a random act of cruelty. And where were the police in all of this?

My mom walked in, grabbed the remote, and shut off the TV.

“I was watching that.”

“There’s no need to watch some sicko murder young women. Life’s too short to fixate on people like that.”

“I’m not fixated,” I clarified. “I’m concerned. There’s a difference. That’s seven girls now. Each with the word ‘witch’ carved into their foreheads. What are the police doing? Nothing?”

She blew me off. “Investigations take time. The police are doing everything they can. Your dad and I see a lot of accidents at the hospital. Sadly, crime is a real thing. But you,” she kissed my forehead, “don’t need to worry about that. Your focus should be on college and the class you need to get to.”

Mom was wrong. I had to worry. The creep pursued young women, specifically witches, a trait I shared and kept to myself. While my parents were blue-eyed and blonde-haired, I had pitch-black hair and brown eyes, and I also had strange birthmarks covering my forearms. It might seem like I have a tragic story, but I believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe I was destined to be abandoned outside the hospital where my adoptive parents worked. As they headed home after a long shift, they heard a faint cry near the emergency entrance. Rushing to investigate, they found me abandoned on the front steps, bundled in a pink blanket. As fate would have it, they immediately took me in and showered me with love.

As a baby, a toddler, a teen, and now at 19, a college student, they never saw me as anything but sweet, curious, sulky, and smart. They had no idea what I was hiding, the power I perfected, the spells I practiced, the magic I shed. In their eyes, I was like them. I knew I was someone beyond their comprehension, someone powerful. But who was I? Who were my birth parents who should have taught me how to use the gifts given to me at birth? The only information I had about my past came from visions—an image of a dark figure dropping me outside the hospital. There were no records of my birth, my parents, a location—as if I never existed. Bringing my questions to my adoptive parents wouldn’t do any good. They’d kept these secrets hidden from me. In spite of me knowing the real truth, my adoptive parents provided a birth certificate, giving me the name, Raven Sagestone. I love them, but I want answers. I wanted to know the truth, and it was clear it wouldn’t come from them. This was something I had to figure out for myself.

I put on my cropped denim jacket, kissed my mom on the cheek, and hit up Uber on my cell. My driver’s tests were a total disaster. I failed every time. It creeped me out when the instructors stared at me with their beady eyes. So…my driver’s license was out, and Uber was in. Having someone else do all the driving was a much better plan, for now anyway.

Forty minutes before class, the Uber driver dropped me off in front of the massive steps leading up to entrance of Granite Bay University. It was one of the oldest schools in Jodence, like something straight out of a fairytale. Its structure was reminiscent of a castle, with its towering columns, decorative arched windows, and cone-shaped roof; yet modern-day people dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers surrounded the ancient building—me being one of them.

In the past fourteen weeks, my daily agenda had consisted of visiting the library before class and researching its extensive collection of witchcraft, magic, and supernatural books. One of those books was certain to contain the answers to my birthright. I absorbed every word I came across about soul-bending, mental conjuring, healing rituals, protection rituals, binding magic, and the lore of fire, water, and air. One of the most fascinating things I discovered was the witch’s mark. It has likely been around for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. However, between the 15th and 18th centuries, it had a much darker history than it does now. Witches were often burned, hanged, drowned, and tortured, and those with red hair and extra fingers and toes were often suspected of witchcraft. Witch hunters used moles, birthmarks, scars, and extra digits to identify witches. It was a myth that a particular god or bloodline was associated with the presence of a mole cluster or rose-colored mark. My arms were covered in black symbols like ancient ink, and neither a cluster nor a mark applied to me. Thank goodness I wasn’t born back then.

With my arms full of books, I walked beneath the library’s massive brick archways, combing its numerous aisles for books I hadn’t read. When I rounded the corner, I tripped over a guy sitting on the floor. My books flew through the air and landed with a thud. I groaned as I hit the ground, hoping I had not damaged my books. The guy on the floor, on the other hand, quickly sprang up and apologized profusely.

His hands steadied me as he blurted, “Whoa, sorry.” He helped me gather my books and ensured I was okay. An adorable smile swept along his lips as he brushed sandy-brown hair out of his hazel-colored eyes. He was probably one of those guys unaware of how cute he was, but cute or not, he’d parked his ass in the middle of the aisle, causing me to trip.

“What the hell, dude? There are tables to sit at and read.”

“Yeah, I see your point,” he grinned, revealing dimpled cheeks as he flipped through the books. “So you’re into witches? Or maybe it’s research for a paper about what’s going now right now?”

“Does it matter?”

He squished his eyebrows together and tilted his head to the side. “Do you know my sister?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He tucked the books under his arm and bobbed his chin toward the tables. “Here, let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”

With a smile, I accepted his offer. “Thank you.”

He arranged the books on the table before shoving his hands into his pockets. Then he stood there, studying me.

“Stare much?”

“Has anyone told you, you’re difficult?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “But hey, I apologize for staring.” He spread his fingers and moved them in a circular motion over my face. “You remind me of someone, Eve. She’s got the same dark hair, ivory skin, and red lip look.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know anyone named Eve.”

“Hmph.”

 The sound of a distant scream sent chills down my spine. My eyes darted around, searching for the source. “Did you hear that?”

“That was definitely a scream.”

Students leapt from their seats, hurling books onto the floor as their gazes swept the room. Librarians abandoned their posts and spilled into the aisles. Panicked voices shouted, “Who screamed?” “What happened?” Me and the guy were thrown into madness by a stampede of people charging to the exits and pushing us out of the building and onto the library’s steps.

The echo of my thumping heart filled my ears as I tried to figure out what was happening around me. The once orderly campus had become a chaotic mess as hundreds of people rushed by, pushing and shoving, their faces filled with panic. As I fought my way through the crowd, I couldn’t help but wonder where everyone was going and what had happened to cause such chaos.

“There!” the guy pointed toward the sculpture of the university’s tower in the courtyard.

I gasped as my eyes landed on the bodies. Three girls hung from the white tower with their necks bound together, now covered in blood. As I looked at their lifeless eyes and saw the word “witch” carved across their foreheads, a chill ran down my spine. An eerie, tragic, and horrific scene surrounded the stained white tower. As students and teachers huddled together, whispering in disbelief, a shrill of sirens echoed in the distance, intensifying panic and fear. Police authorities were under pressure to find those responsible for these horrific acts.

“Damn, three this time,” he uttered with shock.

I couldn’t speak. My throat swelled with a huge sob as I slowly shook my head.

The police rushed in, their footsteps pounding the sidewalk as they raced toward the tower. Their faces were determined as they cautiously approached the cordoned-off area. They quickly pulled out their clipboards and meticulously documented the evidence, taking photographs of the area.

An officer, wearing an exasperated expression, yelled. “Get back! This is a crime scene.”

I flinched, staggered backward, before firmly planting my feet on the ground. I wasn’t going anywhere. This was my battle. I needed answers. Those poor girls needed answers too. My eyes grew wide as I demanded, “Why don’t you find this sick creep before we all die?”

The guy’s gaze burned into my flesh as he snapped his head toward me. “What are you doing?”

The officer thrust his shoulders back and barked out, “You need to step back.”

“Are you trying to get arrested?” the guy whispered in my ear.

Just as his words entered my head, I overheard someone say, “They’re ice cold; not a drop of blood in them.”

My eyes locked on the authoritative policeman. “Blood? Is that new? Were the other girls drained of blood too?”

A pair of squinted eyes glared at me. “You can retreat or go downtown and think about your actions in a jail cell.”

“Omgeez, man up much?” the guy said as he grabbed my arm and hurried me away. “You need to calm down.”

I tore my gaze away from the dead girls and locked it on him. “Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t know anything about me. I want answers for those girls.” And myself, I privately declared. “It seems nobody is fighting for them.”

“It might seem that way on the surface, but I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to help.”

“I wish I could believe that, but dead bodies keep showing up…” My voice cracked as the sob squeezing my throat broke free. My shoulders quivered, and I buried my face in my hands.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and softened his voice. “They’ll catch ’em. It’ll be okay.”

Sniffling, I sighed, “I can’t concentrate. I can’t be in class.”

“We can walk to The Grind, get a coffee, and just relax.”

I nodded and then hung my head as he led me away from the gruesome scene of dead girls.


About the Author

LAURA DALEO is a multi-genre author, specializing in Dark Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Supernatural/Paranormal fiction, Science Fiction, and Young Adult Fiction. Immortal Kiss, her best-known vampire series, explores the Egyptian pantheon that gave rise to vampires. Currently, she is working on her eighth book, I am Wolf, an urban fantasy.

A native of San Diego, California, Laura now lives in Tucson, Arizona with her two dogs, Rose and Cooper.


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Wednesday, March 13, 2024

DARKER by A.K. Nevermore #MCromance



Maw of Mayhem MC, Book 2


Paranormal, Motorcycle Club Romance

Date Published: March 15, 2024



So much for sanctuary. Kit Parson doesn’t feel any safer than she was before she first stepped into the Maw of Mayhem, and things are going from bad to worse. Something big is definitely going down in the paranormal community… and inside Kit. Now that her inner beast has awoken, all it wants is out. The only thing Kit wants is Grim, but he’s got issues of his own.

Fingered for a crime he didn’t commit and injured by the witch’s spell, his cat Darke has control of their form. He doesn’t play well with others, and tensions with the crew are at an all-time high.

With the witches’ elite assassins on their trail, can Darke and the crew put aside their differences to keep Kit safe and get back to the MC? And as the clock ticks toward the vote with Grim’s reputation in shambles, will there be an MC to go back to?



EXCERPT


Shades of the past tore through the consciousness Darke shared with his man, threatening to swallow Grim whole. He fought against their poisoned bite, but the witch’s spell had weakened the big cat’s skin-brother and freed the memories from their fetters. They lashed at Grim with inky black tentacles of torment. His agonized screams rose within the crescendoing squall, raging through their split psyche. A growl welled in Darke’s chest, ruff bristling at their assault.

-- Mine! -- he snarled, lunging into the fray. Sharp claws and teeth rent the shadowed memories of the bad time from his man, scattering them back into the depths of their mind. Grim was his. Him. A self separate, yet one. His skin-brother. Darke nuzzled him close, tongue rasping over Grim’s flickering light.

-- heal --

Kit… his man whimpered, curling into a ball. His light dimmed, giving up control of their form to the big cat.

-- ours -- Darke rumbled, shifting their body and sending Grim what strength he could. Fur sprouted, limbs cracking and reforming. Two legs became four, and a tawny gray mountain lion lay sprawled on the bed where the others had lain his man to recover.

Within, his skin-brother’s light strengthened, its low glow holding steady.

Darke ran a paw over his face, licking at his pad. He sneezed at the scent of old blood, the room thick with the patina of its tang and the decaying musk of the undead. A low growl rumbled in his chest, his pupils dilating to take in the room’s blend of muted color.

Heavy furniture dominated the space, its angles stark amidst the gloom. Tendrils of scent threaded through the room, age and linseed seeping from the wood to twine with the rest of the civilized rot assaulting his nose. He pushed off the bed, padding across the thick carpet. His shadow grayed the fingers of scant moonlight streaming in from long, amber-tinted windows.

Darke paused, his lip curling over his canines, disdainfully eyeing the city spread out below him before turning his face to the bulbous moon.

Had Grim’s female changed and released her animal?

Clay’s cat had promised Darke a mate. Teased him with her scent, captured within the weft of the afghan on Grim’s bed. The desperate longing it evoked proved the connection. The tip of Darke’s tail twitched. He’d trusted it would be so. Waited for so long. Too long. Kit’s scent matched the afghan’s. That meant the beast within her was his.

Darke chuffed his frustration. Sensing his mate without being able to claim her was torture. He paced the breadth of the room, eyes narrowed at the heavy oaken door leading out. Beyond it, faint voices pricked at his ears. Part of his skin-brother’s pride was near. His crew. Darke growled at the snippets of the MC’s inner cats’ near-unintelligible murmuring punctuating the two-legged babble. That he could understand the crew’s stupid yapping better than his own brethren’s yowls irked.

A pang of loneliness shot through Darke’s chest. He missed Clay. When his father’s inner lion had spoken, his deep rumble was clarion. The lynxes out there? Yowls and hissing. Darke could pick out maybe one hard-won word in six, and they couldn’t understand him at all. It had been the same with his littermates, Grapple and Shiv, leaving Darke to rely on instinct when forced to interact.

It got him into trouble. Lynxes were shady and the two-leggers lied. Said things they didn’t mean, then hurt you. Clay had been different, but he was dead while his murderer walked free.

Reaper.

Darke shivered, ears flicking back, remembering the bad time. The man who called himself their uncle needed to die, and Grapple and Shiv with him.

Darke’s temper spiked, his tail swishing. Keenly feeling the loss locked within his mind again, in this stinking place of undead. His skin-brother shared his sorrow at their father’s murder, but not Darke’s isolation.

And now Grim had left him, too.

Darke shouldered through another door into a smaller room lined with tile. It smelled faintly of excrement and strongly of fabricated pine, the water in the bowl stale and chemical-laced. Darke shook droplets from his maw and chuffed his distaste, returning to the window.

Soft footfalls approached from the beyond the oaken door.

Darke slunk into the deep shadow of an armoire as the heavy slab canted open, then closed. Kit limped to the center of the room, favoring a leg. Her arm was splinted, the opposite hand bandaged in gauze. A ruddy stain marred its whiteness. She wrapped her damaged limbs around herself with a low sob, the scent of fresh blood perfuming the air as she moved. Darke’s nostrils flared at that thread of wrongness twining within the delicate tendrils of citrus, cinnamon, and female musk.

His mate was presenting as wounded prey.

Darke bit back the growl building in his chest, fury pounding through his temples. His claws extended and retracted from the carpet’s thick pile. Healthy, she’d be a tempting prize for any predator. Injured… He was going to kill --

No. Darke’s ears flattened against his skull. His man would think before spilling blood.

But Grim thought too much.

Kit scanned the room, then dashed a hand across her face, stumbling to the bed. Her feet froze at its foot, head snapping toward the bathroom, then away. Another low sob eked from her throat, and Darke’s ruff stood on end. He would destroy them. Destroy them all. Starting with those who had failed to protect --

-- Hey! Boy Vengeance! You really just gonna let her think her think he’s gone? --

Darke jumped, fur bristling at the syrupy censure. He backed deeper into the shadows, eyes wide and pulse pounding.

-- Aww. Here puss, puss, puss… I don’t bite --

His lip curled over a canine, and a female’s mocking laughter flitted through his mind as clearly as the gravelly chuckle of Clay’s beast had. Darke’s heart leaped, his ears pricking forward, saliva pooling in his maw.

He could understand her.

The beast inside Kit, his promised mate -- when she spoke, her words were clear, and she wanted to play.

 


About the Author

AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks. Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time. AK pays the bills writing a copious amount of copy, along with a column on SFF. She belongs to the Authors Guild, is an RWA chapter board member, volunteers for far too many committees, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.


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Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Oaky With a Hint of Murder by Dawn Brotherton #CozyMystery



 Eastover Treasures, Book 2


Cozy Mystery

Date to be Published: 12 Mar 2024

Publisher: Blue Dragon Publishing, LLC

 


Aury and Scott travel to the Finger Lakes in New York’s wine country to get to the bottom of the mysterious happenings at the Songscape Winery. Disturbed furniture and curious noises are one thing, but when a customer winds up dead, it’s time to dig into the details and see what ferments.

Is there any truth to the Native American legends that cluster near Seneca Lake? Is the warrior’s disapproval of wineries growing legs?

Aury will need to pour over the clues to unearth the mystery before the winery’s reputation is crushed. With the annual wine festival just around the corner, Aury harvests more than she bargained for when the killer tries to bottle her up for good.


About the Author

Dawn Brotherton is an award-winning author of nineteen books and featured speaker at writing and publishing seminars. When it comes to exceptional writing, she draws on her experience as a colonel retired from the US Air Force as well as a softball coach and Girl Scout leader. Her variety of interests has led to a range of genres including mystery, romance, young adult fantasy, middle grade sports, picture book, and nonfiction. When she isn’t using her words, Dawn is in her craft room in Williamsburg, VA, quilting, painting, or taking online classes. Her affection for travel and all-things-crafty keeps her imagination in high gear for the next Eastover Treasure Mystery.

 

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Monday, March 11, 2024

Picasso's Lovers by Jeanne Mackin #HistoricalFiction #Giveaway



This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jeanne Mackin will award a randomly drawn winner a $25 Amazon/BN GC. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.






You know Pablo Picasso. Now meet the women behind the masterpieces. The women of Picasso's life are glamorous and elusive, existing in the shadow of his fame - until, in the 1950's, aspiring journalist Alana Olsen determines to bring one into the light and discovers a past complicated by secrets and intrique.




Read an Excerpt

Gazes from Pablo Picasso are like brushstrokes. Some are long, lingering, full of texture and pigment. Some are short, shallow, even accidental. His gaze on me now falls somewhere between the two.

Once, his gaze would have found enough for an entire painting. He would have seen flesh, and the bone and muscle under the flesh, the question or certainty of the eyes. He would have seen past, present, and future and painted them in a way that made time irrelevant.

Yes, that was how he pained me. Everything and at once, all the angles and geometry of the body, and he made of me something eternal and always beautiful. That is what an artists can do for a woman. When most men looked at me, all I saw in their faces was desire, the urge to possess. When Pablo looked at me, his face filled with wonder waiting to be translated to lines and brushstrokes.

Spring. The second year of the Great War. I wasn’t twenty yet, and had returned from cold, starving Moscow, where a loaf of bread coast as much as a silk dress…Back to Paris for me!

When Pablo first saw me, I was sitting on the rim of the Wallace Fountain in Place Emile, face turned up to the sun like a basking cat, enjoying the fine day and wondering what adventure I might find…It was early summer. I had stolen a bunch of cherries at Les Halles and a roll, but my stomach rattled.

About the Author:
Jeanne Mackin is the author of several historical novels, including The Last Collection, which has been translated into five languages, and The Beautiful American, which won a CNY award for fiction. She has taught in the MFA Creative Writing program at Goddard College and won journalism awards, and is currently at work on her next novel.

Website: http://www.jeannemackin.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JeanneMackinAuthor
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/JeanneMackin1
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/JeanneMackinAuthor

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Picassos-Lovers-Jeanne-Mackin-ebook/dp/B0C3C2J4FH/ref=sr_1_1

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