If the Bridgerton series made you a fan of regency and all of the rakish dukes, please let me introduce you to Darcy Burke. Your bonus today is being able to read an excerpt from her latest, If the Duke Dares. Be sure to download it and then enter the great giveaway! There's more if you continue to follow the tour.
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This book is described as paranormal fantasy medieval romance and dark fairy tale - so much goodness in one package! Read an excerpt from Jennifer Ivy Walker's The Wild Rose and the Sea Raven. Be sure to follow the tour for more. And best of luck in the great giveaway at the end!
The darkness hid feelings that light could never uncover. And, as shadows, they lurked in the depths of my soul whispering low howls for me not to listen properly, but still wonder if they are there or not. They had crawled as lost spirits all that time, sometimes poisoning me and sometimes pushing with strengths impossible to fight. Their whispers deafened everything around as I got deeper and deeper sunk in them, drowning in their weirdly clear waters. And things started to make sense. Yes, in that gloom of losing reason, everything started to make sense to me. Peering to catch any sign of light that justified that illumination, I just realized the undeniable truth. My soul was the same as the darkness. Hiding feelings that made sense only inside there. And all had remained trapped under the spell of unforgettability, as my soul refused to let those feelings go. And I drowned, or probably in that darkness I was being entirely true. Something I hadn’t dared to do in the light. Probably that’s why those feelings were so strong. Probably that’s why my soul was hanging so much in them.
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He understood Catherine’s dislike of the whole team, in general. She was a protector, and when that many horny teenagers are hanging around, any sensible girl would want to shield their friend. And, Alex had made his move on Rachel after Craig left back then, but in his head, he remembered his intentions being a little more wholesome than Catherine might have thought they were.
Either way, she’d held onto that grudge for a very long time. And wasn’t it a shame?
The beautiful blonde with the magnificent smile had been on Alex’s mind since he’d seen her at Coach’s funeral. He’d thought there was a breakthrough between them when they’d all rallied around Rachel on the Fourth of July, when the sound of fireworks triggered the trauma she’d gone through with the active shooter at the school. Catherine had let him ease in, wrap his arm around her, and they’d even settled on the couch together. Maybe that night had done them all in.
Still, awkward wasn’t how he wanted to talk about his time with Catherine.
He sipped from his beer. Once upon a time, Alex Burke had game, maybe it was just time to try and get it back.
Do you have a fear of Halloween?
Then you suffer from Samhainophobia.
I don't fit in that category! Do you?
Today Halloween is attracting adults in a masquerade type atmosphere, much like Mardi Gras. Their costumed antics mock, challenge, and tease the mysterious, possible malevolent forces of the night. The otherworld becomes our world on this night of enchanted possibilities and transcendence. Are we reaffirming death as a part of life in an exhilarating celebration of magic for an evening? Or like me, just enjoying the air of celebration on a night the veil between the living and dead is purported to be the thinnest. Every year with the help of my hubby, I decorate our house to the hilt on the first day of October and revel in Halloween décor the entire month.
Did you know Jack-O-Lanterns originated in Ireland? People placed lit candles inside hollowed-out turnips to keep away spirits and ghosts on the Samhain (pronounced Sah-ween) holiday. Boy, did we do a role reversal on that aspect of Halloween. Instead of chasing the spirits away, we tend to invite them in.
Most present-day Halloween traditions are traceable to the ancient Celtic day of the dead. Halloween consists of mysterious customs, but each has a history, or at least a story behind it. Take wearing costumes, and roaming from door to door demanding treats. This behavior can be traced to the Celtic period and the first few centuries of the Christian era, when it was thought that the souls of the dead were out and about, along with fairies, witches, and demons. Offerings of food and drink were left out to placate them. As the centuries wore on, people began dressing like these creatures, performing antics in exchange for food and drink. This is where the practice of trick-or-treating began. To this day, vampires, witches, ghosts, and skeletons are among the favorite costumes.
Our Halloween also retains activities from the original harvest holiday of Samhain, such as bobbing for apples and carving vegetables, (pumpkins) as well as the fruits, nuts, and spices for cider associated with the day. Although at my house, hot chocolate is pretty popular, since Halloween almost guarantees the first snow of the year.
Happy Halloween!
"This house
may not have a history of magic, but I'd bet it's magical. You're going to put
an offer in. Right?"
"As I said
before, it may be completely out of my price range."
"I have a
feeling the house has been waiting for you." Gwen flung her hand to her
mouth, her face flushed, and her gaze swiveled to him. "I don't know what
made me say that."
Looking
thoughtful, he grinned. "Since the day I stumbled upon Pepper's secret —
then discovered that you and I share the gift or curse of gypsy blood, things
have been different—" Pausing, he shoved his hand in his jean's pocket and
jingled the change in his pocket. "I've been different. It's as if knowing
magic exists awakened something in me."
"Join the
club. Years ago my best friend Pepper made a believer out of me. In fact, there
were times I wished—never mind. Whether it was my outlook or as you said magic
awakened. But to be fair, I've always had what I called a sixth sense with
animals, attuned to their feelings, almost their thoughts, fears, that kind of
thing. Pepper called it my talent. But as we became close, I noticed other
abilities… you'll think I'm crazy."
"Try
me." He moved closer to her and the front door banged open. Quickly he
rushed to the top of the stairs.
Mimi is back with another adventure in the latest cozy mystery in the series. Enjoy an excerpt from Mimi Takes Europe and then download your own copy. Be sure to also visit the rest of the tour and leave your questions and comments along the way! Best of luck entering the giveaway.
Detective Giscard Morency grew concerned. As lover of Nicole Marcel, he began to have a dull sense of dread toward one Charles Bleisante. He realized the extent of the entrepreneur’s interest in Nicole. It was not only professional. Oh no. It was much more personal.
Giscard knew the man had lustful feelings for his woman. He could understand it well, but it surely made him deeply anxious about the proposed TV Tour of Europe that Bleisante was proposing for Nicole.
The two – with Mimi – would be out of Paris – in grand hotels – at dinners – on planes shooting through the skies – in exotic places - in bedrooms?
Giscard determined to interrupt this pilgrimage. He would find a way. Perhaps, on the journey, Mimi with her petit nez noir, (little black nose,) would find a new felon for him to track. Obviously, Mimi and Giscard were linked together on several nefarious cases. It would not be at all untenable for the detective to enter the picture if a proper case should appear. It was not much to hope for, but hope he did!
“I’m not going to let you go off with him... alone,” he declared to Nicole.
“Oh, please,” was her reply. “I know him. He’s harmless.”
“Well, I know him too,” was Giscard’s strong rebuttal. “I know men...it’s in his eyes. He lusts for you.” Giscard made up his mind there and then to go wherever she went, whether Nicole approved of it or not!
Welcome Hawk MacKinney back to Andi's Book Reviews! Today we've got an excerpt from his latest mystery/suspense title, Blood of the Dragonfly. He's also telling us what it's like to craft parallel worlds between book series and has a great giveaway at the end! Be sure to leave comments and questions as you follow the tour.
In the bright sun-fired afternoon, Craige parked curbside in front of Mattie Skuggs’ well-lived-in cared-for neat welcoming house. He never pulled into Mattie’s driveway. Mattie never owned a car. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had; she would’ve made sure no oil or grease smudges got left on her drive. The drive was spotless. Outside and in, everything about her small cottage of a house was clean and inviting. Mattie fit right into the homey, comfortable space she had made for herself. He made his way up the pansy-trimmed dollhouse walkway embraced with flower beds of daylilies and wild violets in scrupulously weeded, arranged patterns across Mattie's lawn. Stocky and short, Mattie Skuggs was a kind soul but by no means unsophisticated. Mattie’s simple and uncomplicated, happy, content life was the rare exception in the hurry-up-dash PTSD world. Quiet and retiring, Mattie was no timid push-aside walkover. Mattie Skuggs was one of an almost forgotten genre. Retiring, soft-spoken, polite, and considerate, she never complained. She had a warm guileless appeal Craige often wished there was more of. Crass and bluster offended both. They’d gotten it from their upbringing; Mattie’s Mama and Craige’s Grannie had been faithful churchgoers.
Few understood Mattie’s gift, often giving her fearful sidewise glances, mostly for what she might truly know about them. Mattie had learned to quietly use it to help when she could. Craige didn’t need to ask. He’d seen it first-hand in Grannie as well as Mattie. Wasn’t something explainable to run-of-the-mill millennials that couldn’t survive, their lives wired into the latest gadgets? With Mattie, it was simple—a blessing to be shared.
Mattie never married. Never spoke of beaus or boyfriends. Craige made a point of never asking. He doubted she’d ever had a date. Could picture her likely shocked speechless if she saw a man naked, then again, maybe she wouldn’t. A true maiden lady could often know way more than anyone suspected. Born with a keen mind, yet she never finished high school. Didn’t read or write well. Her greatest delight was her tidy, orderly, immaculate one-bedroom cozy, bought-and-paid-for home. With an exceptional eye for rare quality, flea market sojourns were regular delights on her off-days from the Fabric Shoppe where she’d worked for years. She was thrilled if she found a treasure, like her antique brass front door knocker rescued from the gone-to-ruin Pasquerre mansion.
As he reached for the door knocker, her front door opened. Her plump, rosy-cheeked guileless face framed in the doorway, “Mister Craige.” In her lower Alabama accent, stout matronly Mattie’s spirited ice blue eyes were all a-twinkle.
I'm not usually a fan of historical fiction, but I was drawn to this novel and had to read it. Why? I explain more in my book review. You'll also get to read an excerpt, plus an interview between the youngest narrator, Nellie, and author Charlotte. Let Charlotte know what you think in the comments section as you follow the tour for more. And best of luck entering the giveaway!
Read an excerpt:
When I got home from high school today, Jeepers, I knew immediately that something wasn’t right. Aunt Hazel and Ma were sitting out by the milk house on a couple of turned-over pails, and Irene and Nellie were sitting on the ground close by. All of them were looking towards the lane that goes down to the two meadows and onto the woods and crick. The county sheriff’s car sat empty near the silo. No one was talking.
Worried, I raced across the yard. Could Pa have gotten hurt? As I ran toward Ma I looked over at the west field and saw Ace and King hitched up to the wagon piled with brush. Rover was sleeping near the wagon.
It looked like Pa had finished about half of the field, but he was nowhere in sight. Pa never leaves the horses hitched up when he isn’t working. When he comes up for noontime dinner he always puts them in the barnyard so they can rest, too. Naturally, I panicked.
When Ma saw me running over she jumped up and walked over to me, a strange look on her face.
“Is Pa all right?” I blurted out.
“Yes, yes,” Ma answered. “He and Elmer are down in the woods with Sheriff Devlon.” Nellie pushed me aside and threw her arms around Ma’s legs.
“Nellie thinks there’s a dead baby in the woods,” Irene piped up, all knowingly. “The Sheriff’s gone with them to look at it. Who in their right mind would bury a baby in that woods? Nellie musta gotten it all mixed up.”
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**My thoughts**
I don't usually read historical fiction. But I was drawn to this book. My mother grew up on a farm in Michigan, actually not dreadfully far from where this story takes place. She was born a few years after this story takes place, so a lot of the activities that the girls describe sound familiar to me after listening to her stories. She even attended a one-room schoolhouse until she went to high school. I still go back to visit that family farm on occasion, as I still have family there, and I felt like I could picture a lot happening right there.
My paternal grandmother was actually in a suburb of Toledo, mentioned a few times in the story. (For those who don't know, Toledo sits in Ohio on the Michigan-Ohio line.) And while she was in a merchant family and not a farm, she often told me many stories about the Great Depression. So I ended up having a bit of a familial connection to this story. (Plus there are some familiar situations in the epilogue.)
The author specifically mentions trying to keep true to the vernacular of the Michigan farmer. Each of the girls telling the story has her own cadence and vocabulary, and yet again, that is all familiar, down to both of my parents talking about playing in the crick when they were kids.
Now, we didn't have any family lore about the body of an infant being discovered in the woods near the farm. This story revolves around young Nellie's discovery and the fallout and mystery surrounding the baby's identity. In fact, the young girls form a special Sisters Club where they regularly meet and discuss the results of any sleuthing that they have done.
At first, it could seem tedious to have the different parts of the story told three times in three different ways. But that's a important part of the story itself. Each of the girls has a different interpretation of everything that unfolds in the story. My sister and I often talk about how interesting it is that the two of us had the same upbringing and yet interpret our shared memories differently. That's a huge part of what is going on here. And the only way to put together a clearer picture is to fit together these three pieces.
It's also a great historical lesson about how tough times were during the Great Depression. This story felt more real to me than a lot of other stories I have read from this time period.
I really enjoyed this story and unexpected connection to my past. The slow rolling mystery and farm life just fascinated me. Thank you to the author and Goddess Fish Promotions for providing me with a requested review copy. All thoughts and opinions are my own.
***********************
Howdy do, I’m Nellie, the youngest girl in Ms. Charlotte’s book THREADS. Today I’m gonna be interviewing her about her writing and why she created me in that book. First, a little ‘bout me. I’m seven-years-old and it’s 1934 and I live with Ma and Pa, my sister Flora (17) and my sister Irene (11) on a farm near Marshall, in a place called Michigan. We’re having “hard times” and I’ve never had a new dress; I always wear hand-me-downs. I go barefoot all summer and most of the time I love it unless I step on a frog or into a cow pie.
Are you a fan of romantic suspense? Then check out this excerpt from All the Missing Pieces by J. Keyes before you download your own copy. Be sure to follow the book blast tour for even more. And then let the author know what you're thinking along the way! Best of luck entering the great giveaway!
My father’s appeal is coming up in three months. If it goes well, he could be walking out the front doors of the courthouse immediately after, leaving behind all that chicken ramen for Eddie B. and his prison friends. It should go well; I’ve been paying through the nose for his legal team. Not just his lawyer. His team. All of my dad’s money was confiscated when he was arrested, his assets sold to pay back some of the money he’d stolen. You’d think that would placate people, but not even close. Despite their best efforts, the FBI hasn’t been able to locate the last twenty million dollars, and the treasure hunters of the world—and more than a few lunatics—have been obsessed with it ever since. Because I’m the only Carlisle left to roam the planet, most people are convinced I have the money. Or, at the very least, if I don’t have it, I know where it is. If they knew where I lived, they’d see how stupid they are. But they can’t find me, so they’ll never know.
In the meantime, I’m funding this effort, pretending like everyone else that there’s a way out of the mess. That in three months my father’s name will be cleared and he’ll be free. That’s the tiny scrap of hope that stops me from stepping off the roof every day. Maybe, just maybe.
Because the sentencing wasn’t a surprise. My dad was guilty, after all. The first time I’d seen him after the arrest he’d told me as much. I would have sworn he was innocent until the day I died if he hadn’t whispered in my ear and made me believe.
Magnum was barking so loudly he was going to wake up the baby at the end of the block. Pointing to her nephew, Molly addressed her friend the cop. "Don't let him out of your sight. I'll be right back."
"But Aunt Molly—"
But Aunt Molly was already stalking through the kitchen, where she could just make out Magnum's massive head outside the door.
He had something. Something he dropped every time he started barking, and then picked up again, like a furry bellboy with room service.
Something white.
That shouldn't have given Molly the creeps. Tonight, it did. It looked like a flower box, the kind long-stemmed roses come in.
Probably something that had been tossed over the fence from the neighboring streets. Molly's yard sided along Euclid, where an eclectic crowd frequented the trendy shops and restaurants tucked all along the Central West End. Since she'd moved home, Molly had found everything from condoms to a full-sized mannequin dressed as Fidel Castro in her backyard.
But the way Magnum played with that box made her think she had more than Castro on her hands.
Pushing the door open, Molly reached out, and Magnum obliged, dropping his prize in her hand. Slick with dog drool and ragged with careful gnaw marks, it was, indeed, a flower box. And it wasn't empty.
"Uh, Dee?" she called, suddenly even more worried about those notes she'd been getting than she had been. "Can you come in here?"
He did, which set Magnum off all over again. Molly shushed the dog and motioned the policeman over as she laid the box on her kitchen table and opened it.
She saw the glint of gold first. Nestled in layers of white tissue. Heavy and solid. But not all gold. Decorated in gold. Painted with gold hearts. Gold hearts and red crosses.
And letters. Words.
"What the hell—" Dee muttered, leaning in for a closer look as Molly pulled the last layer of tissue apart to fully reveal what lay within.
"It's a fake," Molly insisted, even though she knew better.
She didn't touch it, even though she wanted to. She didn't pick it up or tilt it over just to make sure she was right.
She didn't have to, really. After all the time she'd spent in EDs and Medical Examiners' offices, it was virtually impossible for her not to recognize a human thighbone.
A thighbone painted with the salutation "This is for Molly Burke."
A Murder Mystery... A Romance... Intertwined
Mystery, Romantic Mystery
Publisher: Global Authors Publications
A Story Of Bad features a woman and a man, both intelligent with strong personalities.
She is June Replyn, a city reporter working the business side of the fashion world. June is asked to write a story about how a small company, a clothing factory, survives the death - by murder - of its inspirational leader.
He is Detective Terry Stans. Reviewing clues and interviews, Detective Stans comes away with the impression that the dead man knew his assailant, and his dedicated workers and bereaved family are all prospective suspects.
One day June is at the clothing factory gathering additional material, and Terry is there, continuing his investigation. The detective is stuck. The case is going nowhere, and he believes that the fashion writer has a better view of the inside workings of the company than he has been afforded. Hoping that fresh eyes will see something he hasn’t, he obtains a promise from her that nothing will be printed without his permission, then he invites her to come to his precinct station and review the file. Not long after, he invites her to dinner at his favorite ribs joint.
This novel is about a reporter and a detective, both asking questions about a murder - although from different perspectives - who become ensnared in a romance. Their relationship raises questions about confidentiality, loyalty to one’s employer, professional ethics; she is trying to write a story for her readers, he is trying to keep control of an investigation. Both of their bosses caution them about the dangers to their careers raised by this situation. And there they are, lovers.
The tale is designed to intrigue with two intertwining stories, the mystery of the murder and the unexpected love affair. As the relationship grows and the mystery is solved we visit the worlds of Cambodian employees in America, police investigations, newspapers and their editorial policies, and drug smuggling.
There is no graphic violence or sex in the novel.
Excerpt
In this excerpt June Replyn is interviewing two sisters, Cambodians, about a cousin and co-worker who was murdered in front of them. Because their English is quite limited, June has brought along Salath Doeung (Sal), a college student born in New York to Khmer-speaking parents.
The four sat in silence for a moment, sipping the hot green tea, eating the sweet, wonderful dessert, and then the conversation began again. June wrote some clarifying comments next to the notes she had hastily written as he was speaking. She took her time, her head down, not wanting to convey the least impatience. Silence, and she glanced up to see him writing. Then he said something else and the cousin’s smiles disappeared. They paused, and then in lowered voices began to speak. June felt like screaming, she wanted simultaneous translation. What were they saying? But she waited, waited. Finally they paused, and he turned back to her.
“Two things. The first is that she had done a little dating here but no boyfriends, and she liked it that way, she thinks it isn’t easy to be a married woman with little kids here, not if you don’t speak English. Like I said before, she really wanted to go home, planned on it, and pretty much was at work or here or a local restaurant, not out late, no mysteries. As far as your guess, the one you mentioned in the car, I think your impression is right, correct.”
June, head down, nodded slightly as she wrote.
“Second, someone at work, guy who unloads boxes and helps the cutter, assistant cutter I guess, had a fight with her about some boxes or materials or something. Something at work. They don’t know what it was about because Rith didn’t want to talk about it, most unusual, she liked to gossip. They had a fight, and after that she avoided him.”
“Avoided scared or avoided mad at?”
He turned back and there was a brief flurry of Khmer.
“Scared, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Did they tell the police about this, and if so, why not?”
Even as she said it she realized her mistake; anyone living here, especially in lower-income neighborhoods, knows the word ‘police’ no matter what their language background or skills. The sisters visibly tensed.
He started to turn, but she stopped him.
“Wait, I just made a stupid error, they recognized the p-word and they’re already on guard. I really want to know the answers, hope you can fix things.”
He winked at her, a youthful show of confidence, and turned back to the two young women, who now sat holding their tea cups tightly in their laps, their backs straight. He spoke for some time, they both listening intently, occasionally glancing at June. Then he stopped, and no one spoke for almost a minute. Then Sopheara Moeun softly began to speak, said only a few words and her sister spoke sharply to her. Sopheara responded in a raised voice, Sopharath responded loudly, and suddenly both were standing on their feet, noses inches apart, screaming at each other. In the midst of this June noted that they carefully placed the teacups back on the tray, a gentle, delicate gesture while they shouted as loud as they could. Suddenly Sopharath whirled and looked at June with a startling combination of fear and anger, tears starting to run, and held out both hands, palms up, pleading, and said “You all make dead.” Her right hand changed, index finger pointing, and pointed at herself and her sister, back and forth, pointing at each several times. “You all make dead, you all make dead.” She ran from the room.
June wasn’t sure what to do next, so she did nothing. She lowered her eyes, giving up any control, trusting that her interpreter, who had done so well so far, would know what to do.
He said something softly, and Sopheara sat down again. He paused, then turned to June. “They do know something, they may even know who did it. They are, as you can see, scared. They didn’t say anything to the police for that reason, but now Sopheara feels that she has to make it right, has to help the Americans...I mean, the government, punish him.”
June took her time, spoke slowly and gently, nodding at Sopheara Moeun, trying to be positive, reassuring, conveying not only through the words to be translated but with her demeanor and tone of voice. “Please tell her this. First, she is doing the right thing, honoring her cousin’s memory, and that she is very brave. Second, I have.. friends... in the police department, and I promise her that they will be very careful, move cautiously, and not do anything that will.... No, that doesn’t work. Sorry. Say this, say that I will explain the situation and ask the police to be very careful.”
The Khmer began again, both speaking in soft voices for a short time. Then Sal leaned forward and gently patted Sopheara on the shoulder, looked her in the eyes and said something. She smiled shyly, got up and started to leave the room. She stopped in front of June and, while looking at her, said something in Khmer. Salath Doeung translated “I hope you are the one who wins.” Then she was gone.
About the Author
Edward M. Krauss is the author of A Story Of Bad; Solomon The Accountant (a gentle love story set in a middle-class Jewish community in Toledo, Ohio in 1950); Here On Moon (betrayal, divorce, recovery).
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