Books R Us

Book Blitz of Undying by Christy Healy. (#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Thu, 11 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Undying
Christy Healy
Publication date: June 9th 2026
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Rory Ó Conchúir has always known that she was destined for war. Her deadly gifts, the unwanted inheritance of her ancestor, the Mórrígan, can only be wielded as a weapon of destruction and doom. For years, she would not allow herself to be used as such, instead choosing to live far across the sea, refusing to regret what she has left behind in order to do so…until the fateful day that she learns of the price she has paid for her peace.

Niall Ó Flannagáin, the young king of Connacht, was never meant for war — that has always been his half-sister, Rory’s, role. But now he finds himself threatened with a foreign invasion and the ruination of the realm, without her aid. In desperation, he turns to a powerful enemy as an ally, his only hope to unite the provinces against the foreign armies gathering even now to destroy the land he has sworn to protect.

Locke MacMurchada, the son of the most hated traitor in all of Éire, owes a debt that he knows he can never pay. But when the opportunity to propose a political marriage with the murderous Rory Ó Conchúir arises, he seizes the chance to protect what is left of both his people, as well as the legacy which his father ripped to shreds…so long as she doesn’t kill him first.

When the fateful day of doom at last arrives, the fates of all three royals – the cursed princess, the young king, and the traitor prince – become inextricably woven together, forcing them to face new threats and old enemies, hoping to forge a stronger Éire from the ashes of the old.

Content Warnings:
Frequent depictions of war & battle scenes
Graphic descriptions of torture & death
Loss of a family member
Discussions of grief & self-hatred
On-page death of major character

Goodreads / Amazon

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Author Bio:

Christy Healy has been a book nerd ever since she was a little girl hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a dog-eared copy of Anne of Green Gables. She started writing soon after, and the obsession only grew. Now Christy weaves stories of her own into the myths and tales of the Celtic, Indo-European, and Greco-Roman worlds that she has loved for so long. When not lost in her fantasy worlds, she lives in North Carolina with her children, her dog, and her husband.

Website / Gooodreads / Instagram / TikTok / X / Newsletter

GIVEAWAY!

Undying Blitz

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Book Blitz of Boys of Richland- Gabriel by Daniela Romero. (#Contests- win a hardcover special edition set of the trilogy.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Wed, 10 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Boys of Richland
Daniela Romero
Publication date: June 7th 2026
Genres: New Adult, Romance, Sports

One girl on the edge.
One obsessive college soccer star determined to save her.
One devastating love story that nearly destroys them both.

Cecilia Russo was ready to disappear the night Gabriel Herrera found her.

Now, the star athlete refuses to let her go.

Gabriel forces his way into Cecilia’s life with the same intensity he brings to the field—reckless, relentless, and impossible to ignore. The more he pushes past her walls, the more dangerous their connection becomes.

Because Gabriel doesn’t just want to protect her.
He wants to consume her.

What starts as grief, anger, and stolen nights spirals into obsession, codependency, and a love neither of them knows how to survive. Especially when the ghosts haunting Cecilia refuse to stay buried.

With trauma, betrayal, and a looming trial threatening to tear them apart, Gabriel and Cecilia are forced to decide if love can truly heal two broken people—or if some damage is impossible to come back from.

Perfect for readers who love:
• College soccer romance
• Obsessive, protective heroes
• He falls first
• Who hurt you
• Emotional trauma and healing
• Touch-her-and-die tension
• Found family

This omnibus edition includes: The Savage, The Striker, and The Replay.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Dropping one knee on the mattress, he lays me back, all the while kissing me, caressing me. My body sinks into the comforter and I freeze, locking up at the feel of his strong, powerful frame hovering over mine.

I can’t help my reaction. Squeezing my eyes closed, I count to ten in a desperate attempt to talk myself down. Gabriel doesn’t notice at first. He continues to kiss me, trailing his lips across my cheek and along my jawline. One hand holds my hip, pressing me down, pinning me in place.

I can’t… I open and close my mouth, struggling to breathe.

Panic rises in my chest and my breaths come out as heavy pants. Gabriel shifts his weight, moving his position to settle himself beside me.

He props himself up on one elbow while his other arm curls around my hip, tugging me close as he rolls me to my side to face him. “Hey,” he whispers against my lips. “We’re not going any further than this.” His words are meant to reassure me, but I’m having a hard time getting enough air into my lungs. I swallow hard and open my eyes, peering up at him between my lashes. He lifts a hand and strokes his thumb along my jaw, eyes filled with concern.

“I’m sorry.” My cheeks burn and I look away, but his hand cupping my jaw draws my attention back to him.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m not here to get in your pants. That’s not what I’m after.”

My brows furrow together. “It’s not?”

He barks out a laugh and presses a quick kiss to my lips, unraveling the knot of tension inside me. “I mean, I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about it.” He waggles his brows and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “But we’ll move at your pace. Whatever it might be. This, us, it’s new,” he tells me, reaching down to lace the fingers of his hand with mine. “We don’t have to rush things. I’ll be happy if you let me hold you.” He presses another quick kiss to my lips. “And happier if I can kiss you.”

I worry my bottom lip, looking down at our entwined hands. I don’t want to over analyze what this means. He’s kissed me twice now. But that doesn’t mean this is a relationship. I’ve never done casual, but maybe casual is exactly what I need.

“We don’t need to take anything further than that,” Gabriel assures me.

“I—” His expression is tight, almost hopeful, as he waits for me to respond, but I don’t know how to put words to what I want to say. Gabriel is infuriating, but there’s no denying I’m attracted to him. That he brings out this side of me that I had buried away. He pushes me, gets under my skin. But more importantly, he makes me feel alive.

“What if I want to do more?” I ask.

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat and he tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ears. “I don’t think—“

“Please.” My eyes stay locked on his and electricity crackles between us as indecision plays out across his face. I want to chase this feeling. To know I’m not broken beyond repair, and I think Gabriel can give me that.

“You said we could be broken together,” I remind him.

His gaze rakes over my face, looking for any sign of indecision, but he won’t find one. I’m sure about this, or at least as sure as I can be.

He licks his lips and his eyes flick to my mouth, a hungry look taking over his expression. “Are you sure?” His voice is husky and I squeeze my legs together as I nod in confirmation.

“Yes.”

“We’re not having sex.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he raises one hand to stop me.

“I’m not saying I don’t want to.” He pulls me impossibly close, pressing the hard length of his erection against my abdomen to show me the extent of his desire. “But, you’re not ready. And I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

I chew on my bottom lip, feeling the sting of his rejection, but nod my head anyway, accepting defeat until he adds, “That doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel good.”

My head jerks up and he grins.

“Would you like that?” he asks. “You want me to make you feel good?”

Author Bio:

Daniela Romero is a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of emotionally intense, trope-packed romance novels that break hearts and heal them in equal measure. Known for her angsty enemies-to-lovers stories, possessive heroes, and fierce heroines, she writes steamy new adult and paranormal romance that keeps readers hooked from the first page to the last.

Her books feature unforgettable characters, explosive chemistry, and emotional journeys set in vivid worlds—whether on the football field at Sun Valley High or deep within supernatural realms.

A Bay Area native now living in Washington State, Daniela is a proud Latina, a devoted wife, and a mom to three wild and wonderful kids. When she's not writing or wrangling words, you can find her curled up with a book, binge-watching TV with a crochet hook in hand, or plotting her next fictional heartbreaker.

She believes in love, redemption, and happily ever afters—no matter how messy the journey.

Website / Gooodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok

GIVEAWAY!

Boys of Richland Blitz

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Book Blitz of Mist in the Willows by Lucy Linne. (#Contests- $20 Amazon gift card + a signed copy of Mist In The Willows -2 winners)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Mist In The Willows
Lucy Linne
(Spirit Fleet Chronicles, #1)
Publication date: August 25th 2025
Genres: Adult, Gothic, Horror, Urban Fantasy

Discharged unexpectedly from the British military at the peak of her career, Jade Palmer must find a way to rebuild her life. Haunted by strange nightmares and fragments of her own fractured memories, Jade finds herself thrust among unfriendly family and unfamiliar friends. Her only comfort is in the cobbled streets, quaint cottages and winding river paths that hold the happy echoes of her childhood.

But in the local cemetery, older than living memory, a strange mist rises among the willows in the depths of the night… and with it, a vengeful entity that seems to stalk Jade’s every footstep with terrifying purpose.

Alongside her faithful dog, Cannelloni, and wild-child sister, Leela, Jade must fight once more—braving a tangled journey through ancient supernatural lore, and the depths of her own hubris, to protect those she loves.

For the dead have truths to tell… and their retribution comes as cold as the grave.

Mist in the Willows, the first entry in the Spirit Fleet Chronicles, is a chilling and cozy gothic novel about loss, cupcakes, annoying family, mysterious steampunk strangers, and the ways in which violence may haunt us all.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo

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CHAPTER 1:

The first time I heard the chilling whisper calling my name, it came from Grandad’s old analogue radio.

I was unpacking the five sad-looking boxes containing all my worldly belongings and didn’t pay much attention. Dad stored them in his basement, and spiders were crawling out of every corner.

When I picked up my phone to check for messages, a mega-arachnid scuttled on eight hairy legs along my fingers. It had insidiously blended in with the black case of my mobile and became invisible. Now it took up most of the screen. I dropped my phone on the coffee table and spotted its mate, the same incredible size, scampering across the floor and under the couch. At least Grandad went to bed early and didn’t see this infestation I’d brought to his cherished houseboat.

I ran from the lounge to the open plan kitchen and grabbed a glass to trap the intruders.

As I passed by, the radio on the windowsill abruptly switched to a hoarse faltering static.

The music returned as I shook the glass out of the barge door, tossing the eight-legged giant, into the grass by the river path. The other one, nowhere to be found. I regretted trying to trap and release them. I would have rather squashed them with my hiking boot. But cleaning bug goo off the floor is a task I will avoid where possible. A flamethrower would be ideal but I’m out of those since I’m back home. So, the spider got to live another day.

As I rinsed that glass to put it away, I noticed it.

Wait a minute? What’s going on with the radio?

Standing beside the little radio, where it sat since my childhood, gathering dust on the windowsill, I listened to the static.

It had a quality about it that I found almost obscene. It sounded alive, fluctuating from deep cavernous whispers to a strange whistling. I fled the kitchen when it pitched that abominable screech of steak knives against dinner plates.

The static immediately faded away, returning to Grandad’s favourite sixties rock radio station. Back in the lounge, I punched a pile of empty boxes flat to bin them. Not that I wasn’t glad the static stopped. But something about the way it had switched so fast bothered me, as if it knew I had moved away from the radio.

Moments later I returned to the kitchen. The music shifted to static in an instant. I stood next to Grandad’s ancient kettle, plugging in my coffee maker, a survivor since my student years in the dorms.

How could it be so loud and not wake up Alan?

Its pulsing tones surged, like the call of a bottomless pit, then lulled to a sinister hum at the very edge of hearing. Every time it came, I cringed, as if plunging into neck deep water with ice cubes bobbing all around me.

Before I knew it, I had crossed the room and stood with one hand on my dog’s collar.

“You don’t like it either, huh? Good boy,” I said, as Cannelloni sat back down among the window seat cushions. The static melted away behind me, the music replacing it. Cannelloni tucked his head in his paws again with a huff.

I glanced back at the old radio. Had it sounded a bit like whispers in some guttural language? Surely, I was over thinking it. It could be nothing but static.

I headed for the desk to start my Wi-Fi set up, hoping to stream a movie and chill after the gruelling day, moving in with Grandad. And most importantly, to make sure her messages would come through on a stronger signal.

I reached and patted my cargos ’pocket, the little one with the zip on my hip. It was still there: I felt the round shape of her compact mirror. The only thing I have of her, until we meet again.

I felt better. There are good things in the world, and good days ahead.

As I pulled up the lid of my laptop, in the split second before the dark screen lit up, your face flashed at me.

It’s only been happening in the last few years or so, that my reflection startles me, looking like you. I’ve always had your impossibly thick and straight, dirty blonde hair. And your bushy brows over cobalt blue eyes. But most of all, in my late thirties, I’m now your age. The way I remember you. You would be much older today but if we could somehow meet, across death and time, both aged 38, we’d look like twins. Anyway, it only lasted a fraction of a second, and then the desktop lit up and I was looking for a movie right away.

Ten minutes later, I glanced suspiciously at the radio. Nothing.

Twenty minutes later, nothing.

Halfway through an outbreak of a superbly gruesome zombie apocalypse, I still couldn’t stop thinking about the static. Was I causing it? It only happened when I neared the radio.

Run a test?

I hesitated. So many other things to worry about at this moment. Why did I even care if the songs were interrupted a few times?

Because of how freakin weird this noise sounded.

I paused the movie, resigned to my curiosity. I edged along the back of the loveseat towards the kitchen. The music staggered as I reached the counter. Just to pretend to myself I didn’t come to test the radio, I reached out and grabbed a handful of cookies from the doggie jar.

The static soared.

Sounded like a cold gust whistling savagely out of a black chasm. Then dulled to the throaty whisper of an unsettling breeze through dead leaves. That did it. I got the hell out of the kitchen.

Joining Cannelloni at the window seat, I felt an unreasonable amount of relief that the music returned on the radio. Cannelloni thought so too. He gave such a profound growl he even startled me a bit. He bared his teeth at the kitchen. Not like him at all.

“Don’t worry, just a funny noise!” I said, letting him slurp the cookies on the palm of my hand. My gaze wandered back to the spot I had been standing.

A funny noise that comes only when I’m close to the radio. But how close, exactly?

I stood up, arms crossed and edged to the back of the couch marking the end of the lounge, not quite entering the kitchen.

“Ok Cannelloni let’s see, one step. Two steps, three…”

The music faltered. I stopped moving.

I leaned back as far as I could go without shifting my feet. The music flowed. I chuckled.

Not because I wasn’t scared. More like, because I was getting too scared.

Then I leaned forward.

The music faltered.

I tried to hold my balance, bent as far as I could reach like some demented yoga teacher who forgot which warrior pose they were demonstrating. A sudden fear, out of nowhere.

Rivulets of crimson streaking dry sand. Something solid in the blood. Glistening strips of sinew. Twitching on the red mud. Not again!

The gaps in the music, for some reason, flashed images from my nightmares in my mind.

I straightened up. This wasn’t funny anymore.

I’m good at pushing the memory of the nightmares away during the day and focusing on my work and everything else I have to worry about. This bloody radio thing was getting on my nerves.

I jumped with a yelp as a sharp pinch came from behind my left knee.

“Cannelloni! What are you doing?”

The dog had bitten hard into my trouser leg and was pulling at it. As if he wanted me to leave the kitchen.

“Aren’t you clever,” I said, disentangling myself and coming to sit with him by the window seat. “It’s ok, I’m staying here, you can snooze again!” I scratched under his ears until he turned around full circle on his cushions and plopped in the comfiest spot.

At least I know. It’s about four steps into the kitchen.

That would mean I can’t reach the counter without setting off the weird.

But I was done experimenting. Hated the way the static made me feel, and what it did to my dog too.

This boy, the only good thing about this new, civilian life, was normally a big bundle of cuddles. At the moment he looked perturbed, ears twitching. Cannelloni’s natural state was passed out, belly up, and fast asleep on his giant plushie bed. Ever since I brought him here from the shelter after Easter, he acted as if Grandad ’s houseboat has always been his rightful kingdom, where he reigned supreme and absolute. Yet now he kept sitting up, fretting, scanning the room with anxious eyes. Tiny whimpers squeaking at the back of his throat. I sensed danger too. But I couldn’t understand why.

I cast my gaze around the empty room.

I felt watched.

The dark water of the Thames sparkled under the moonlit sky from every side of the semi-circular cabin. I hated the glass, U shaped wall of the main cabin, but that’s what you get when living in a wide beam Dutch barge. The lounge was basically an open balcony. Anyone could be watching me from the dark river paths on either side of the banks, and I had zero visibility at night. Meanwhile, I lived and breathed in full view, unless I went to hide in my cabin at the back of the houseboat.

I went around lowering the window blinds post-haste.

Better. Only the kitchen window remained. I hesitated. I wanted to close those blinds too, but that would get me in the vicinity of the radio.

Pressing my hand to my brow, I felt sweat droplets at the root of my hair.

I took two steps forward. I was nearing the invisible mark I’d noted mentally, on the kitchen floor.

Two steps more. The music was faltering. Maybe if I went really fast it wouldn’t happen.

I dashed to the cord hanging at the casement, leaning in, real quick, my hand reaching out to the blind. The static came loud.

Flustered, I backed into the lounge again, and the songs came back on.

I sat down onto the couch, feeling like a coward.

The radio on the sill kept singing its quiet and perpetual song.

Grandad never changes station or switches the music off. He turns the sound up when he is around, which isn’t often. He doesn’t think the kitchen is a man’s place, he only comes to fill the water can when he looks after Grandma’s flowerpots. He treasures her little terrace garden in the front of the barge. He lowers the volume when he heads for his berth to watch his shows, the music from the radio playing quietly through the days and nights in the main cabin.

I wanted to close the kitchen shades but an irrational fear of going near the radio pinned me to the spot.

“Don’t be a twat, this happens all the time. People moving around a device can mess up the signal. Just fucking go,” I thought.

I moved to the window directly and lowered the blinds to the sound of loud static. It seemed eerily similar to fast, angry whispers.

And this time I could not deny it.

The radio called my name.

Jade… JADE!

OK, I hadn’t imagined that.

I ran back to the lounge to grab Cannelloni by the collar. He growled at the radio, irritated. I led him to my berth, shutting the door. We never went near the kitchen for the rest of that night.

Quite annoying, because the Wi-Fi signal is terrible in my cabin, so I had to go stand at the door every ten minutes to check for her messages.

None came.

Seemed ungrateful to complain. Grandma’s bedroom: Hands down the biggest room I had ever called my own. Walk in wardrobe. En suite bathroom. A recliner armchair, proper Victorian style. Fancy letter writing desk, with the miniature drawers to put in useless shit like ink bottles. Good to store the USB cables I keep losing. Queen bed. Four memory foam pillows. An army of multi shaped squishy cushions on a crochet throw. Fluffy duvet and matching dog blanket for Cannelloni (that’s store bought, I got it so my dog feels like he fits in). Lush. But still, I couldn’t chill enough to finish my movie.

I kept thinking about the radio saying my name.

In the cosy safety of my berth, it all seemed ridiculous. Of course, the radio didn’t say my name.

Probably someone spoke from outside, maybe someone else called Jade. Walking past with a friend.

I pressed play in my movie for the umpteenth time, getting comfy on the bed.

Lost cause. I couldn’t pay attention. Not even when the hordes of undead swarmed down the streets towards the hapless group of survivors hiding in the rubble. I was absolutely unable to stop wondering who had called my name outside the boat, in the dark.

That voice spoke to me.

Unwelcome memories from a few of hours earlier made my teeth grind as my jaw tightened.

“You’re staying with Alan then? How you gonna get yourself a nice man if you’re living with your Grandfather?” Their old man cackles, phlegmy snarling that ended in ugly coughs, had resounded across the river. Grandad ‘s friends sailed by leisurely, at a speed easy for him to jump over from their boat on to our deck. They wiped sweaty foreheads with beefy hands and stared at me while Grandad hopped on board.

“I’m not looking for nice,” I said, and watched their confusion halt their sneers. They’d thought I’d say I’m not looking for a man. All three of them took a gulp of their cans of lager, manspreading their knees a little wider as their boat bench creaked under their weight.

“What you looking for then?”

“None of your business.”

“Don’t be a smart ass,” Grandad told me under his breath, as he waved goodbye to the six seater rental sailing on. His friends don’t own a boat. And they take up two seats each.

“You look after your Grandfather now!” one of them called back to me.

“I will.” But I won’t be doing the kind of looking after that you lot expect of me.

“Your Grandma kept the Lady Thomasine spotless!” said another, looking over his shoulder.

“She had cinnamon buns hot from the oven every morning!” called the third over the growing distance between the boats.

Which meant that Alan had already complained to them about me. I only just moved in today for fuck’s sake.

“Grandad, can you please not discuss me with your friends?” I said. All I got in return, was a scowl in the direction of his laundry basket, parked in front of the washing machine. And a loud slam of his cabin door.

As if.

“Adults wash their own clothes,” I called after him. “And the bakery in the village has excellent cinnamon buns.”

Distant calls from the river bend reached me, and more guffawing. Something along the lines of ‘get in that kitchen, woman!’

I was used to their banter devolving, from barely friendly to openly woman-bashing, in T minus half a can of lager; I didn’t reply.

“They don’t mean anything, just joking!” shouted another one of them, as I turned around to look at them. Their shoulders were shaking from laughter; they found the women in the kitchen comment hilarious.

“Watch out for my high school mate Caden at the Lock today,” I called back.

“Why, you gonna marry the new Lock keeper?”

“No. His wife’s with the Port of London Authority, she has the power to breathalyse those suspected of boating under the influence.” I grinned as they choked on their snorts. “Have a nice evening now.” As they glowered wordlessly at me, I slammed the deck door behind me.

I generally never met Grandad’s friends, apart from on their river pub crawl weekends, when they picked him up and dropped him off. It’s an aspect of life back home, that I’m not looking forward to: seeing the three bigots Alan calls my ‘uncles’. Since I was a girl, they spent every moment of our brief weekly meetings cracking jokes at me, because apparently, I’m doing girlhood wrong.

I’m great at fixing the plumbing and maintaining the generator around the boat, every time I visited. Who cares if I don’t know how to operate the oven; when shit kept breaking after Alan tried to repair them three and four times over, Grandma called me; and I got the job done. Grandad hated it. Called me an odd ball ever since I was young. When I grew up, he and his friends took the piss every time I pulled out my toolbox. Which, incidentally, is bigger than any of theirs.

So, it had to be them, they probably came for a walk down the river path, calling my name outside the boat in the night. Stupid of me to buy it.

I turned to sleep, a tight knot in my stomach. Grandad’s friends are arseholes.

Not the best first night back home.

But I guess this is not really home. Just where I stay for now.

Cannelloni’s soft fur felt warm against my side, as he plopped down and curled up with a happy blink.

“Our first real night together, huh? I’m so glad to have you, boy,” I said, throwing an arm around him. The way he acted towards me with complete trust, as if we’d known each other out whole lives; it was amazing.

But as the dog fell fast asleep, I stayed wide awake in the dark. So, you see, Mum, it’s not been fun moving in with Grandad.

***

Jade paused and took a sip from her beer bottle. Her short ponytail waved in the breeze and brushed against the tombstone. The sun hung heavy on the horizon. Darkness draped more than half the graveyard. The thousand-year-old church, nestled among the graves and willow trees, cast a long and wide shadow over the grounds. The gust that blew from those darker tombs under its shadow, brought a chill to where Jade sat. She hugged her knees and shivered.

The golden disc of the sun vanished behind the treetops. As the world darkened around her and the evening birdsong gave away to silence, her blue eyes were vague, lost in thought.

The screen of her phone flashed, and she snatched it up. She looked at the message, but it wasn’t the one she wanted. She rolled her eyes.

“Leela won’t quit,” she muttered and threw the phone on the grass beside her again.

She turned to the grave and looked at the violin carved there. “Only thing I’m glad about is getting to chat with you whenever I like, now, Mum. I missed this when I had to be away all the time. But the shitty thing is I’ve never had a real, grownup civilian job in my life. I need one, to afford a place of my own. Clearing Grandad’s friends ’laptops from viruses is not going to get me a deposit for a flat.”

Taking another sip of her beer, she gazed at the tall-stemmed glass that stood, untouched, at the step of the gravestone, full to the brim with red wine.

“Sorry for the cheap bubbly, Mum, I can’t afford your posh vino at the moment. I’ll bring you better soon. Everything’s gone to hell right now. I never planned to retire from the Corps, but those nightmares! They just fucked everything up. Got a diagnonsense now. No more tours for me. And typical Dad, he refused to let me stay with them. What a great way to welcome me home at the airport! At least he said he will pay for therapy to sort out the nightmares. But only because I’ll never hold down a job if I can’t sleep through the night. Not that he cares, other than making sure I’ll never again ask him to stay in my childhood bedroom. She’s turned it into a jewellery crafts studio.” Jade rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I honestly don’t mind living on the boat. Really. Easier to get here from the mooring on my bike. Just hope that weird stuff with the radio will stop so I can get some work done and get some money saved. To move out as soon as possible.”

She finished her beer in one last sip. Blond locks had come loose from her ponytail and fallen over her face as she put her bottle away in her backpack. The tips of her hair were sun-bleached to almost white by nearly two decades in the desert sun; in contrast to her once fair skin, now tanned to a deep bronze.

Movement among the distant graves made her look up. Someone had crossed the cemetery gates in the twilight. Jade instinctively hid behind her mother’s tombstone and watched him follow the winding path among the tombs.

“That’s a bit late for visiting this place,” she muttered. She waited to see which grave he would visit, ready to make a mental note of its location and check the tombstone later on. He looked young, even hunched as he was, with his face in the shadows; his gait was light and his pace swift. Jade guessed someone that age was probably not here for a partner; more likely, like herself, for his mum or dad…

Her curiosity slowly turned into a frown of surprise. He’d kept going. He crossed the path into the grove of the willows. And still he walked on.

“Why that way, that side is the old burial ground.” She crouched deeper and leaned to peer from the other side of her mother’s tombstone. He crossed to the pitch-black darkness at the back of the old church. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see any details of his face or clothing; it was too dark on that side. The ancient burial ground was off the path and the light of the lampposts didn’t reach it. Only the dim pearly starlight granted some shapes to the vista of mossy headstones crumbling there. No one had been buried there in the last two hundred years; the latest dates on those stones were in the eighteen hundreds. No fresh flower bouquets were left on those graves, and moss grew on the stone unchecked, deepening the cracks and eating away at the skull symbols etched there. No one ever cleared away the ivy growing over those names.

Why would anyone go there?

A clink of glass alerted her that she had almost knocked over the wine sitting at the front of the tombstone. Jade lost all interest in the stranger.

“Sorry Mum.” Making sure the wine was safe, Jade picked up her phone once again.

“No new messages.”

She sighed.

“I keep re-reading the old messages: No dates yet, but everything is short notice. People get told to pack at noon and fly out before sunset. It could happen any minute. I know it will be my turn soon. Ami wrote that three days ago. I replied: I miss you. I can’t believe it’s taking so long. It looks like chaos over there, it’s on the news every day. Are you ok. One day later, without getting a reply, I texted again: I haven’t heard your actual voice in four weeks. I can’t stand it.” She paused.

“That text was so embarrassing,” Jade muttered. “Throwing my own pity party while I’m back home, and meanwhile she is in the desert, her deployment extended and she’s dealing with the madness of the evacuation. I wish I had deleted it.” She bit her lip.

“Thirty-two hours later, came a reply: I know, I miss you too. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I just never imagined anything like this. How are you? How is Cannelloni? Is he settling in? Happy to have a new family?”

A chuckle. Then Jade got serious again looking at her screen.

“That’s the last I’ve heard from her. I replied: Cannelloni ‘s the best! He’s with Grandad for a few weeks already, I dropped him off first. You’d think he’s been living on the boat all his life! Grandad sent me photos. I wrote this on the last days of packing back on the base,” Jade murmured wistfully. “That dog is so cute I’m actually looking forward to moving day so I can see him. I guess your plan worked. I’m not 100% devastated to be leaving. There’s this teeny, tiny part of me that can’t help being happy. So damn happy about a stupid dog.”

Jade sighed.

“There’s been no reply since.” She fidgeted with the phone in her hands. “I’ve been sending her photos of Cannelloni nonstop since I arrived at the boat, but they haven’t been delivered. I wish I could tell her how awesome he is! I was worried he’d have forgotten me over the few weeks I had to leave him with Grandad and go back to base to pack and check out of the accommodation. But he remembered me right away! Fell in my arms like we are best friends. Maybe he’ll always know I’m the human who came and took him out of the dog charity, I guess. Maybe that’s why he likes me so well. I’m so glad I got him, Mum. These feel like the worst days of my life and yet he makes me smile all the time. Ami was so right telling me to get a dog.”

The night chill made her shudder.

“I think I’ll head home, Mum. Love you always.” She picked up the glass and poured the wine slowly on the grass covering the grave. She finished the silent goodbye by brushing a kiss on her own fingertips and pressing them for a heartbeat on the stone, where the name Evelyn could just be discerned carved in silver against the darkness.

“See you soon, Mum.”

Jade stood.

“Hang on, hang on. Where the hell did he go?”

She was alone in the cemetery. The stranger was no longer among the Celtic crosses and gothic inscriptions of the ancient tombs, nor had he come back down the path.

“There’s nowhere to go from that side,” Jade said, puzzled. She scanned the ivy-covered wall surrounding the churchyard. It was too tall to climb over. And yet the man had somehow managed to get out.

“Ok Mum, I think next time I’ll bring a ginger beer. Clearly, alcohol doesn’t go well with late evening chats in the cemetery.”

She scanned the darkness one last time.

The only thing moving where the stranger had been was a veil of pearly white mist, flowing over the grass like wisps of coiling tongues licking the gravestones.

She shrugged.

“Whatever. Bye, Mum.”

She walked briskly down the solitary path and through the cemetery gates, where her bike stood tied to a railing. Just like Jade’s trainers and backpack, the bike was well used, but pristinely clean. She welcomed the sounds of laughter and clinking cutlery that came from the garden of the village pub down the road. It was always too quiet inside the cemetery, once you crossed through those gates.

She’d often wondered how the ancient stone wall around the churchyard blocked all auditory evidence of life—no voices at all, even though the riverside path was often busy with couples or families deep in conversation as they strolled by the Thames. No crunching of footfalls, no dogs barking, no bubbling cavitation of boats zooming past, no music, no clicking of bicycles ’wheels—but the burble and swoosh of the river was ever present. It made the cemetery feel like an isolated world of its own.

Like it somehow cancelled out all living sound.

Author Bio:

Doodler. Living in a perpetual state of Halloween. Fueled by chocolate. Boxer. Unapologetic introvert. Adopted by three cats and a cat-sized dog. Purple everything. Psychology student. Goth. Can be bribed with artsy, hard cover notebooks. Ghost friendly. Will be summoned by freshly brewed coffee. Suspiciously familiar with Greco-Roman mythology, and several dead languages commonly used for demon summoning. Wall-frames maps. Devout observer of cupcake o’clock. Feminist Motto: Skulls, Bats and Witches ’Hats. Spinning while audiobooking. All you need is fluffy socks and a pint of nice-cream. Frequently channels Disney Villains. Names her house spiders. Owner of a pet GAMER, whom she’s kept in his man cave, on a diet of pizza and horror movies, for well over two decades.

Website / Gooodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok

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Mist In The Willows Blitz

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Book Blitz of Dune Queen by Amina Adamou. (# Contests- win an ebook copy of Dune Queen)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Dune Queen
Amina Adamou
Publication date: June 6th 2026
Genres: Fantasy, Romance, Young Adult

When Salima Farhan turns eighteen, she thinks she’s finally old enough to escape the absurd teachings of the cult her parents joined ever since she was a kid, but Farik Masood, the founder and leader of the Crescent Compound, has other plans for her: he wants her to join a recruitment program to bring in more cult members.

Salima agrees to join the program in order to eventually escape—but she quickly regrets that decision when she finds out Masood’s ‘program ’is actually a front for something far more sinister. Knocked unconscious before she can run, she wakes up two months later only to be told that she now has the same magic as djinn, mischievous, mythical beings who are normally invisible to the human eye. And as a reward for these powers, she’s expected to use her new abilities to help Masood take over the world.

Distraught but determined, Salima must fight for her freedom and for the innocent lives Masood wants to destroy—even if it means marrying the very djinn who has sworn to protect her enemy.

Amazon

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Author Bio:

Amina Adamou is a Nigerien living in Niamey, Niger, where several of her books are based on. As a kid, she wanted to become a manga artist, but after suffering defeat after defeat at the hands of complicated battle scenes, seemingly endless panels of scenery, and an aching hand, she threw in the towel and decided to tell stories in a different way. When not reading or writing, she likes to watch K-dramas and listen to K-pop. You can contact her at AminaAdamouAuthor@gmail.com

Facebook / Instagram

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Dune Queen Blitz

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Book Blitz of Deceptive Inheritance (Remnants of the Lost ,#1) by Jennifer Anne Davis. (#Contests- Win a $25 Barnes & Noble gift card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 04:00:00 +0000

Deceptive Inheritance
Jennifer Anne Davis
(Remnants of the Lost, #1)
Publication date: June 9th 2026
Genres: New Adult, Paranormal, Romance

Laney Lake transfers to Stonemore University with a plan: two years of freedom before real life drags her back home. After a lifetime of overprotective parents and careful rules, she’s determined to finally live by making friends, saying yes more often, and experiencing the things she’s always been told to avoid.

Then Rowan Ward notices her.

To the rest of campus, he’s the rugby captain. He’s charming, confident, and impossible to miss. To himself, he’s a werewolf barely maintaining control. Rowan is the next alpha, bound to a future already chosen for him. His girlfriend is perfect on paper. She’s from a powerful bloodline, unquestioned loyalty, and the one his father expects him to marry. It should be enough.

It isn’t.

Laney pulls at him in a way nothing ever has, stripping control down to instinct and want. He knows he should stay away. Instead, he watches her. Circles her. Fights urges that feel older than reason.

Laney doesn’t know what he’s hiding. She only knows that when he’s near, her body wakes up and she’s warm, restless, and painfully aware of how badly she wants him to touch her. As Laney leans into her stolen freedom and Rowan teeters on the edge of breaking every rule he’s sworn to follow, old laws begin to strain. Because Laney isn’t ordinary. And if Rowan’s world discovers why she matters, choosing her could cost him everything.

She wanted two years of fun.
He was never supposed to want her.
But some instincts don’t care about rules.
And some sparks are born to burn.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

I opened the door, got out, walked around the front of the car, and stood there staring at the empty field before me.

Then I fell to my knees and screamed. It seemed as if something were clawing inside me, begging to be set free. That only frightened me even more.

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked, coming to my side and wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “You’re scaring me.”

Tears streamed down my face. It took me a minute before I could answer. “That makes two of us. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know what I am. My own parents are lying to me.” I’d never been so afraid in all my life.

“What are we going to do?” Sarah asked.

I loved that there was a we in this. It made me feel less alone. “Right now, we’re not going to do anything. We’re still investigating because we don’t have enough information to know how to move forward.”

“Are you going to talk to your mom?”

“Eventually. But not yet. I don’t want either of my parents to know I suspect something.”

“Okay.” Sarah stood and pulled me to my feet.

And then I remembered what Adan had asked about whether my parents were my biological parents. “First, I need to see who I’m living with.”

“This is seriously like something out of a movie,” Sarah said. “Like this is insane.”

I happened to agree with her. It all seemed so surreal, that I was having trouble believing any of it myself. “I’m going to need you to be quiet about it.” We got back in the car. “Don’t talk to anyone about this. Promise me.”

“I promise I won’t say anything.”

I pulled back onto the street and started driving toward my house, wondering who and what I was.

Author Bio:

Jennifer Anne Davis is the bestselling, award-winning author of YA fantasy and NA paranormal romance. She graduated from the University of San Diego with a degree in English and a teaching credential. She lives in the San Diego area with her high school sweetheart-turned-husband and their rambunctious, spoiled GSP.

Her three adult children are in college and graduate school. When she’s not writing, Jennifer can be found reading, crocheting, or baking sourdough bread.

Jennifer has always loved writing stories where the stakes are high and the tension is even higher.

Awards:
Cage of Deceit: Winner 2018 Kindle Book Awards
The Key: Finalist 2014 USA Book Awards
The Voice: Finalist 2014 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
The Voice: Winner 2013 San Diego Book Awards

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Bookbub / Instagram / X / Tiktok

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Deceptive Inheritance Blitz

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Book Blitz of A Jewel of a Crime by Valerie Taylor. (#Contests- Win an Amazon gift card)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Fri, 05 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

A Jewel of a Crime: A Venus Bixby Mystery
Valerie Taylor
(Venus Bixby Mystery, #3)
Publication date: June 2nd 2026
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

Venus Bixby is ready for a fresh start. With green streaks in her hair and “Rock the Shamrock” polish on her nails, she’s sold her dance studio and set her sights on a glamorous second act: traveling the world to recover stolen art. But before she can book her first flight, she stumbles over the new studio owner’s dead body behind a drawn curtain.

In a town like Chatham Crossing, secrets don’t stay buried and gossip travels faster than the morning coffee line. Suddenly Venus is a suspect in a very public investigation. As she scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers a troubling secret from her late husband’s past: he purchased an emerald ring she’s never seen—and now it’s missing.

When a string of burglaries rattles the town, Venus begins to suspect the murder and the stolen emerald are connected. With rumors swirling, neighbors whispering, and her passport dreams slipping, she’ll need sharp instincts—and a dash of Irish luck—to catch the real culprit.

A Jewel of a Crime is a sparkling cozy mystery filled with small-town charm, amateur sleuthing, loyal cats, and twists that keep the pages turning. Includes cookie recipes and a nostalgic oldies playlist.

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

“Where do you think Margo is?”

Rather than barge uninvited into the classroom looking for her, Gabby and I bided our time and hung out in the lobby. I shifted from one foot to the other while Gabby perused the business cards pinned to a brand-new combination whiteboard and corkboard.

“When I come back with that vase, I’ll bring a few business cards to tack up here.”

“Great idea!” I rifled through my purse until I found a couple of cards promoting Oldies & Goodies and Cats & Their Cradle. I affixed them to the cork and smiled. Part of me wondered whether Sam would take them down before anyone ever saw them.

Still no Margo. Did she not hear the bell when we entered a few minutes ago? Maybe not over Ol ’Blue Eyes. I considered writing a message on the whiteboard. I picked through the pens in the Tremont Regency Hotel mug on the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any of those dry-erase markers.

“Where could she be?” Gabby asked.

“Probably in the back. Should we check?”

I gently opened the glass door to the main classroom. A rush of crisp air reminded me how we’d kept the temperature in the low sixties so the students wouldn’t get overheated. The smell of fresh-cut grass suddenly wafted over me. My nose recognized dance floor wax, forcing me to stifle a sneeze.

The same song we heard when we walked into the lobby still played. Must be on a continuous loop. I listened closely. Ah, Frank was singing “Witchcraft.” An appropriate theme for the day.

The walls were painted a creamy shade of white. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall and a row of barres ran parallel to the floor. The mirrors reflected framed images on the opposite wall. I turned to examine them up close. I walked along the wall, studying and touching each gently. Definitely Sam and Margo in their younger years.

This egotistical display was so unlike the studio Paul, and then I, owned. Our walls were proudly adorned with photographs of the young dancers who graced our ballroom.

Where are those pictures? Why didn’t they ask if I wanted them? What else did they keep from me?

“Margo?” I called.

Silence.

At the far end of the room, there was a royal purple floor-to-ceiling drape pulled closed across the width of the ballroom. As I walked toward it, I waved toward Gabby. “I’m gonna check back here.”

I noticed a universal restroom to my right. I motioned to Gabby. “You check in there.”

Then I drew back the curtain. “Never mind. Found her!” I cried out.

Author Bio:

Valerie Taylor lives in Connecticut and considers herself a typical "average Jane." She might remind you of the reclusive neighbor who fancies herself a novelist. Unlike many of her peers whom she admires, she does NOT have a degree in literature. But she is the award-winning author of the romantic comedy trilogy: WHAT'S NOT SAID, WHAT'S NOT TRUE, and WHAT'S NOT LOST. The roots of those three novels, as well as the books in the Venus Bixby Mystery series—A WHALE OF A MURDER and SWITCHED AT DEATH and A JEWEL OF A CRIME—most likely took hold during her early years watching Carol Burnett, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and The Twilight Zone. Her love of oldies music stems from hours listening and dancing to Elvis Presley and The Beatles, and being in the Bobby Darin fan club.

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Book Blitz of How To Love A Prince by Hayden Stone. (#Contests- Enter to win an Ecopy of the book.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

How to Love a Prince
Hayden Stone
(Being Royal, #2)
Publication date: June 1st 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance

What happens when a playboy prince must find a respectable husband to redeem himself and secure the monarchy’s future when he unexpectedly inherits the throne?

When London-based playboy Prince Theodor learns he’s about to inherit the Danish throne, he must clean up his scandalous image by finding an appropriate husband. But his planned redemption arc to audition fake boyfriends to fake marry creates another set of problems, until a fateful trip to Corfu, Greece, leads him to Greek Prince Stefanos, of the former Greek monarchy, and challenges his guarded heart as sparks fly.

It’s too bad they accidentally sink a yacht, which inevitably leads to more scandal, and they must start apart. However, Theodor and Stefanos can’t stop thinking of each other, leading to heated, secret encounters between Greece and England guaranteed to set the tabloids alight once their secret is revealed…

How to Love a Prince, Book 2 in the Being Royal Series, is a light-hearted royal rom-com featuring fake dating, opposites-attract, and forbidden love.

For fans of Red, White & Royal Blue, Boyfriend Material, and The Unlikely Heir.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

When I pause long enough to go to the bar and get some water, I bump unsteadily into someone. “Sorry,” I manage, clapping a hand on the tall man’s shoulder in apology. It’s solid muscle under my fingers. He’s even more built than I am, and I’ve kept in good shape since my military service years ago and more recent modeling work after that. Before I settled into working with my business partner on our design projects.

The man turns around, frowning, his mouth open to complain. Then his eyes widen in recognition, beneath a tumble of dark, wavy hair.

Of course he’s hot.

I grit my teeth. A hot man is what got me in trouble to begin with tonight. Or, more like, said hot man got himself caught up in the tabloids and then caused me problems.

Also, I might be staring at the stranger.

Not being a British royal usually has its advantages in London. Less recognition, for starters. I’ve lived in London for years now, away from Denmark. I get less than I would get back home anyway, unless on the off chance I come across a Dane or a Danish monarchy enthusiast. Which, surprisingly, happens more often than one might think.

Except I’m hardly being subtle tonight. I want to be seen. Straightening to my full height, I stand my ground in defiance.

Let them photograph me. I insist.

I want Aidan to know what he’s missing. He’ll be sorry then, him and his wretched groom.

Except it doesn’t make things any better, and then it dawns on me I’ve still been gawping openly at a gorgeous man, with olive skin and black hair and blue eyes. Which, I’ve got to say, is a stunning combination known to do a number on me. He’s mesmerizing. I gawp like a tourist taking in one of the wonders of the world. Believe me, he’s one of them. Usually, I’m a shade more coy, to my credit, but I’ve had a lot to drink tonight, and my filter is off. In fact, my filter’s probably tossed somewhere deep in the Thames, like a votive offering right alongside some Bronze Age weapons and Roman coins.

“Prince Theodor?” He has an accent that I can’t quite place. It’s totally hot, though.

“Guilty,” I say flippantly, recovering in an artful facade of manners. I run a hand through my hair. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to crash into you. Shockingly rude. Would you like me to get you a drink to make up for it? Please.”

“No need. Already have one.” The man holds up his cocktail, complete with little umbrella and some fancy garnishes. His eyes dance. “You don’t know who I am?”

If I hadn’t been busy staring at his face like I was trying to etch it into my memory for all time, I would have maybe looked at his hand with its cocktail. Confession time. “To be honest, I barely know who I am right now.”

“Fair.” The grin he gives is spectacular, easy, almost familiar. His white teeth match his white shirt. I shiver. “I can see why you might want to forget tonight. Bad luck about the news.”

Now he looks sympathetic. My face burns.

Oh, hell.

Does everyone follow the tabloids? God, has everyone seen my embarrassment coming before I did?

Even so, do I want to forget this stranger? The probability in truth is at around nil. Around us, the dance music thumps on, people laugh and carry on around the bar where we stand in the shifting strobe lights from the dance floor, all purple and pink and blue.

And then, everything comes crashing down again as his words belatedly register in my brain. My mouth hangs slightly open. So much for finding the evening’s prospect. He’s murdered my opening.

“Ouch, man.” My suaveness has gone right out the door of the club and died on the Soho street. Probably by drowning in a well-trodden puddle. “You had to remind me about the news.”

“Sorry.” He looks contrite. Then he searches my eyes, with amusement lingering in his. There’s no malice that I can see, which makes for a refreshing change, at least. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“How rude, I should have asked your name. I’m sorry, my manners have vanished. Terribly sorry. What’s your name, then?” I ask.

He laughs easily, shrugging. “It’s Stefanos.”

I go back to staring. Something is at last clicking into place through an absinthe-induced fog. No wonder he looks a little familiar. “As in, Prince Stefanos?”

That would be Prince Stefanos of the former Greek monarchy. The Greek Royal Family remains, but in exile outside of Greece, spread across Europe.

“Yes.” Stefanos bows his head. There’s something completely charming in the gesture, almost shy. Certainly self-effacing. “And I’m very sorry about the reminder of the tabloids. I know they’re a pain for all of us.”

“You just re-reminded me,” I complain, but I’m smiling, despite the miserable night he seems to insist on reminding me about, like he’s delighting in a few more twists of the knife. And despite my best efforts to forget about Aidan. A stab wound is like that. My gut twinges. Or maybe it’s the drinks protesting in my stomach.

At any rate, I’m distracted by Stefanos, the moment of his glossy hair as he laughs again, ducking his head down as he breaks my riveted gaze.

“I’ve got to say, the prince-per-capita rating in this club is off the charts tonight.” I gaze openly at him, leaning ever so slightly in. Yes, he’s hot. Confirmed. As if there were any question about his hotness. The evening’s at last starting to look better and better. Thank fuck.

“Absolutely—”

Then, in turn, someone careens into me—and my flirting is officially cancelled.

Because it’s officially messy o’clock at the bar before last call.

And I’m drunk enough to not have my bones left for balance—and I crash hard, my drink splashing him first—and I fall hard right into Stefanos’s chest.

Author Bio:

More animal than mineral, Hayden Stone is a writer of fun queer fiction, especially with kissing. He currently lives in Victoria, Canada, and has previously lived in Vancouver, Canada and London, UK. He likes strong coffee and is owned by two cats. You can find out his latest news on Twitter or Instagram, or at his website: haydenstonebooks.com

Website / Goodreads / Instagram / TikTok / X

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How to Love a Prince Blitz

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Book Blitz of Angel's Salvation by Ines Gray(#Contests)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Angel’s Salvation
Ines Gray
(Watchers and Warriors Series, #3)
Publication date: May 31st 2026
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance, Urban Fantasy

If breaking a curse meant losing yourself, how far would you go?

In the dark and dangerous streets of Caracas, CIA operative Amani Wilhite is abandoned behind enemy lines. Captured and marked for death, a mysterious warrior appears, plucking her from the torturer’s chair and claiming she belongs to him. Thrust into a world of fallen angels, secrets, and ancient magic, Amani must now decide if her deadly savior offers a path to salvation or certain death.

Val has endured the death of his fated mate nine times across centuries. As a half-fallen angel, each of Amani’s deaths pushes him closer to the demonic transformation he’s fought lifetimes to resist. Desperate, he strikes a perilous bargain with a prophetic witch—but salvation offers no guarantees, and the price may cost him his last shred of humanity.

As Amani and Val fight against ancient forces and confront their destinies, desire ignites. But with Val’s humanity slipping away, the risks are greater than ever. Failure this time doesn’t just mean losing each other. It means Val will become the very monster that will ensure Amani’s death.

Angel’s Salvation is a dark, seductive, must-read fated-mates romance. Filled with betrayal, desire, and scorching chemistry, it will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very end. If you enjoyed Dark Lover by J.R. Ward or A Hunger Like No Other by Kresley Cole, you’ll love Angel’s Salvation. Don’t wait, click buy now and experience this thrilling ride today!

Goodreads / Amazon

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Author Bio:

Ines Gray is an award-winning dark fantasy romance author who specializes in writing about fated mates and forbidden love. Drawing on twenty years in social work and law enforcement, she weaves gritty suspense into her stories of fallen angels, demons, shifters, witches, and other immortals who lurk in the shadows of our world. A fascination with reincarnation and mythology fuels her multicultural cast and the supernatural worlds she builds. When she's not crafting high-stakes romance, Ines indulges in action and horror movies, travels with her husband, or answers to her rescue cat with cerebellar hypoplasia. Her mission? To write as many stories as possible about mystical humans and the immortals who shouldn't love them. For bonus stories and new releases, visit her website.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Newsletter

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Angel’s Salvation Blitz

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Showcase of The Pawn by John David.(#Contests-Win An Amazon Gift Card-2 Winners.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 02 Jun 2026 11:53:00 +0000

THE PAWN

by John David

May 11 - June 5, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE LEMASTER FILES

When TV reporter Pete Lemaster gets an after-hours call from a college friend, he doesn’t expect it to catapult him into another big story in his reporting career. Scott “Uncle Scotty” Wilkins—a globe-trotting, charismatic businessman—has been arrested at a Singapore airport with enough drugs to guarantee a life sentence.

The case explodes into an international spectacle. Viral images of Scotty charm the public, fuel conspiracy theories, and attract opportunists eager to profit from the scandal. For Pete, it’s personal—he owes the family a favor. But pursuing the truth could compromise his career.

Teaming up with police lieutenant Rebecca Dawes, Pete follows a trail that leads from glossy boardrooms to Singapore’s prisons. Every clue exposes another enemy: betrayed lovers, vengeful spouses, shady investors, and rivals with millions at stake.

But the closer Pete gets to uncovering who framed his friend, the more he realizes he may be the next pawn in a deadly game of deception.

If you enjoy journalist-sleuth mysteries like The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, you'll be hooked on The Lemaster Files!

Praise for The Pawn:

"The Pawn is a stellar sequel to The Bystander. I was zipped away on this zany and captivating narrative."
~ Leaf Bound Review

"The Pawn is the follow-up to this author’s first novel, The Bystander, featuring reporter Pete Lemaster. I loved the first book, and this one was no exception. The pacing, dialogue, and banter keep the reader engaged in the story. There were many times I did not want to put the book down."
~ Mystery Review Crew

"Fast-paced yet purposeful, The Pawn explores timely themes of media influence and the fragility of truth in the digital age... With a well-earned twist and confident storytelling, the novel is a sophisticated, gripping sequel that not only meets but surpasses expectations."
~ Steve, Best Thriller Books,

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Conspiracy Thriller
Published by: Tule Publishing
Publication Date: May 13, 2026
Number of Pages: 251
ISBN: 9781970840513 (ISBN10: 197084051X)

The Lemaster Files

Read an excerpt from The Pawn:

Chapter One

Jacksonville, Florida, USA
Thursday, 7 p.m. EST

THE PHONE STARTED to vibrate its way across the kitchen counter. I hated that. It shook when it went unanswered, bleating like a wounded sheep.

Pay attention to me. Answer me.

But it was my day off, and my phone had been set to DO NOT DISTURB. Yet it still rang. I was watching the NCAA basketball tournament, as was my right on my day off. My Florida Gators were struggling more than they should as the favorite in their first-round game. I had a little bit of money but mainly pride on the line.

Still bleating.

I read an article recently, saying members of Generation Z were now offended if you called unannounced. Text before you call, they so arrogantly professed. Make an appointment to hear any voice associated with the participation-trophy generation.

Being neither a Gen Zer nor a trophy, I didn’t know who was calling. Someone in my contact list had called in rapid succession, working around the do-not-bother-me setting. So, either something was up, or the spam callers had cracked another smartphone code.

I got up and went to the kitchen and to the phone. I wanted another beer anyway.

The name on the screen said Cole Nathan, one of my college buddies.

Not work. Thank you, basketball gods.

I was fully expecting we would immediately jump into a conversation about why our star player was launching three-pointers without anyone under the basket to rebound. The phenom had also seemingly forgotten how to pass.

I picked up the phone and just started talking, “Can you believe this guy? I mean, I know he’s gonna be in the NBA next year, but he’s like one step from half-court and letting it fly.”

“Pete, I’m not watching the game, sorry,” Cole said. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. “What’s going on?” “Uncle Scotty is in jail.”

“What?” I said. I had to think for a second. I had met Cole’s uncle a few times in college. We went out to bars with him. “What happened?”

“He got arrested yesterday at the airport in Singapore.” “You’re kidding. Shit. For what?”

“Drug possession.”

“Damn. That sucks. Singapore?” Questions were flowing through my head faster than I could articulate them. “Um, I don’t really know what to say, man. I can’t even remember Scotty doing drugs. It was usually fun, but it’s been years since you have even mentioned him. Did he have a problem?

And wait, Singapore?”

“He’s not a drug dealer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cole said.

“I don’t know what I’m asking. Let’s start with what happened and what you know.”

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. We got a report they found drugs in his luggage when he was going to Singapore on business.”

“What kind of business?” I asked. Scott was always pretty slick.

“He works for a real estate fund. He’s been there before.

It’s a big mess,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Cole. It’s terrible. Do you need a referral for a lawyer? I can talk to my brother. I don’t think this is the kind of thing he does, but he knows a lot of other lawyers.”

“Well, he’s got a lawyer over there, and we’re talking to some guys here. But we think it might hit the news and be bad, and that’s why I thought about you.”

“Okay, Cole, you know I cover Jacksonville, right? Every once in a while, something crazy happens and I cover national news, but I’m not sure how I can help.”

“Uncle Scotty lives in Jacksonville,” Cole said.

“He does?” I said, putting down the not-yet-opened new beer and looking for a pen.

“Yes, he does.”

“Oh, okay, if a business guy from Jacksonville just got arrested in Singapore, I’m guessing our desk already knows about it. I don’t know who’s going to cover this or even if it’ll get assigned to somebody. Do you guys want the world to know about this? I mean, I can’t kill it if the desk is on it, but I might be able to help. What do you want?”

“Pete, we’re worried the world will think my uncle is a drug dealer. You know him. I don’t know what happened, but something is not right about this. It makes no sense. I need help figuring out what is going on. My uncle is rich. He has no reason to smuggle drugs.”

“Was he traveling alone?” I asked. “Did he ever get mar-ried?”

“My uncle, married? That’s a good one.” Cole said. “He was traveling alone, baching it like always.”

“Got it. Well, I was supposed to be off today to watch the game, but it looks like our Gators have this one under control.”

Famous last words.

The Gators were up eight with seven minutes left. “I will make some calls, see what I can find out, and call you back. Is this the best number?”

“Yes and thanks,” Cole said.

As I hung up, our star guard again launched a bomb from the mid-court logo, which clanged off the rim and bounced over the backboard. Not sure who was giving me more heartburn—the star player or Cole’s uncle.

I called the breaking news desk at WJAX-TV where I work as a general assignment reporter and sometimes investigative journalist. My friend and colleague Olivia Marquez, a breaking news digital journalist and all-around technology maven answered.

“I thought you were off,” she said.

“I am, but when did that ever stop me from bugging you?” I said. “Have you heard anything about a Florida businessman being arrested in Singapore on drug charges?”

“Is he from Jacksonville?” “He is.”

“I think I would have noticed that.” I could hear her typing, and I turned to take another look at the game.

A moment later, she found it. “Well, here’s something from the Associated Press about American executive Scott Wilkins arrested in Singapore, I guess yesterday.”

“That’s the one,” I said.

“But isn’t it already tomorrow over there, like a major difference, twelve hours ahead?”

There were several questions in there. Olivia had a su-premely quick brain. “Says he entered the country from a flight from San Francisco, and he originated in Orlando.”

“Gotcha. Well, he’s from Jacksonville.” “Do you know him?”

“Well, sort of. He’s my friend’s uncle. I met him when I was in college. We painted the town a few times, among other things. The family is freaking out.”

“Can’t blame them. What do you want me to do with this?”

“Do me a favor and just hold tight on it. I will call you back.”

Cole answered on the first ring. “Pete, what do you know?” he asked.

“It’s on the AP wire with his full name and that he’s an American businessman arrested in Singapore on drug charges. It’s short. The story is tagged Orlando because I guess he flew out of there. I’m guessing the story hasn’t gotten any traction because he’s not from Orlando and the time difference.”

“What do you mean about Orlando?”

“Stories come across the wire tagged with locations, kind of like keywords. In Jacksonville, we care about stories relevant to Jacksonville. In Orlando, they are looking for stories tagged to there. Doesn’t mean anything except it kind of gives you and your family some time to try to get ahead of it.”

“Okay, so it’s not all over the place?”

“Not yet. But it may not turn into anything because, you know, the news gods are fickle. Right now, Orlando news stations might be trying to confirm he is from Orlando, but they aren’t finding anything because he’s not. So the story is in limbo.”

“You are in a weird business, Lemaster,” Cole said with a sigh.

“Yes, I am. Listen, it’s up to you. It’s my day off. I can do nothing on this story and be fine with it, but I can’t prevent somebody else from covering it. If you want me to do something today, then you have a bit more control because, well, we’re buddies, and I’m gonna make sure it’s balanced. Honestly, we would probably start with a short item that this local guy was locked up in Singapore. If I get you on the record, confirming it and the basic info, then we can pull a short story together, maybe thirty seconds or so. Just a short item. We don’t have a lot. We would need to get a picture.” I paused. “Or I could watch the end of the game, and we can wait it out and talk tomorrow. It’s up to you.”

“My uncle has been locked in a fucking jail cell in Singa-pore for like the past two days, so whatever they’re doing now hasn’t gotten him out,” he said, somewhere between pissed off and distressed. “So I say let’s try to generate some support. We’ve got to maybe try to get the government to help us or somebody to help us.”

“I get it,” I said.

“Do you know what the penalties are for drug possession in Singapore, Pete?”

“I have no idea.”

“Google it. It’s scary. We need to do the story.”

“Okay, Cole. So, let me get this on the record and make it official. You are confirming that your uncle, business executive Scott Wilkins of Jacksonville, was arrested in Singapore on drug charges?”

“Yep, 100 percent. He lives in Ponte Vedra Beach.” “And you are saying he is being wrongfully detained?” I added, coaching-prodding in a way I technically should not do.

“Absolutely. Singapore has made a huge mistake, and we need the support of the US government to get him out. How does that sound?”

“That helps me. Do you have a picture of him?” “I will send you one.”

“Okay, I will let you know if I need anything else.” We hung up.

I called Olivia back.

“Hey, so is Rod there?” I asked.

Rod Kirby was the acting general manager of the station and my boss.

“Yeah, he’s in his office. Do you want to talk to him?” she said.

“No, not yet. Please do me a favor and take this down. I can confirm business executive Scott Wilkins of Ponte Vedra Beach has been detained on drug charges in Singapore. Looks like it happened two days ago. I’m trying to get you a picture. The family in the US is saying he has been wrongly detained, and they want the US government to intervene. Please take this to Rod and see what he wants to do with it.”

“Okay,” she said.

My phone chimed, and I opened a text message from Cole with an image attached, and there he was—Scott “Uncle Scotty” Wilkins—just as I remembered him. He had light brown hair just past collar length, with a little bit of gray in the temples, and steely blue eyes that accented high, chiseled cheekbones. In the photo, he had a light tan, a big smile, showcasing perfect teeth, and a day or two of manicured stubble. He looked like a model, straight off a billboard. He was wearing a casual linen long-sleeved shirt with a sweater pretzeled over his shoulders in a way no one ever wore—just people who were posing for pictures. He wore jeans and unfinished leather loafers, no socks. The perfect, eligible rich guy online dating photo.

“I just got his photo—sending it to you now,” I said.

I forwarded the image to her and a moment later heard her phone beep.

“Oh my god, he’s hot,” she said, giggling. “Is he single?” “Well, I don’t know, but he’s not available because he’s in jail in Singapore.”

“He’s ridiculously good-looking. Gotta share this with the girls in the office.”

“How about talking to Rod first?” I suggested, hoping to bring her back to earth.

“Yeah, I’m on it.”

“Thank you, Olivia.” I hung up and texted Cole that we were probably going to run an item with the photo, and I would stay in touch.

I turned the basketball tournament back on, watching my Gators advance to the next round, not knowing I had just lit a most unusual fuse.

***

Author Bio:

John David is a long-time public relations and crisis communications consultant, author of a non-fiction business book, and a corporate ghostwriter. His debut novel, The Bystander (The Lemaster Files Book 1), was longlisted for the BPA First Novel Award, was awarded as a finalist for the 2025 Storytrade Book Award for traditional mysteries, and was named to the shortlist for the 2025 Page Turner Award for mysteries and cozy mysteries. It was released by Tule Publishing in September of 2025. Though not a big joiner, he is a member of the International Thriller Writers Debut Author program. When not working or writing, he enjoys fishing, talking about politics, and following the Florida Gators. He and his beautiful wife Pamela live in Pinecrest, Florida.

Catch Up With John David:

ByJohnDavid.com
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Facebook - @ByJohnDavid

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Cover Reveal of You Had Me At Meow by Gracie James (#contests- win an amazon gift card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 01 Jun 2026 21:08:58 +0000

You Had Me at Meow
Gracie James
Publication date: July 7th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance

Some girls get fairy godmothers. Abby Thompson gets a talking cat with a British accent and absolutely zero chill.

After her latest blind date—arranged by her loving (but relentless) mother—ends in a concussion, a wine-soaked dress, and enough humiliation to power Manhattan, Abby decides she’s done with dating. Forever.

Too bad her cat, Mr. Whiskers, has other ideas. And he’s suddenly sharing them. Out loud.

“Honestly, Abby, your taste in men is almost as concerning as your taste in sweaters.”

His mission? Fix her train-wreck love life and help her land her dream job. His qualifications? None. He’s a cat. His methods? Questionable at best.

But somewhere between the disastrous first dates, ruthless office politics, and the unexpectedly charming veterinarian who might actually be worth shaving her legs for, Abby starts to wonder…

Is Mr. Whiskers a miracle? Or a catastrophe with whiskers?

Either way, her opinionated feline isn’t backing down. And if Abby wants her dream life, she might have to trust the one life coach she never asked for. Her cat.

You Had Me at Meow is a sweet, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy about finding your voice, risking your heart, and one very determined cat who refuses to let his human settle for anything less than purr-fection.

Add to Goodreads / Pre-order

Author Bio:

Gracie James lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and their sweet rescue cat, Pinky, and absolutely loves the rain. When she’s not writing swoony, laugh-out-loud rom-coms sprinkled with a touch of magic, she’s usually hiking up a mountain or eating chocolate like it’s a personality trait. Her creative peak occurs somewhere between “I should go to bed” and “well, it’s basically morning now,” and she considers sunrise more of a suggestion than a deadline.

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Book Blitz of Love at the Fiesta- A Kwentitas Romance Anthology. (#Contests- Win An Ebook of the Anthology- 11 winners.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 26 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Love at the Fiesta: A Kwentitas Romance Anthology
(Kwentitas Romance Anthologies, #3)
Publication date: May 26th 2026
Genres: Adult, Romance

Return to Hacienda Luz—the world of Pasko Na, My Love and Forevermore—as the beloved Moore family opens the gates once more for a dazzling Santacruzan Fiesta in the heart of Napa Valley.

For two vibrant days, the vineyard comes alive with music, food, pageantry, cultural traditions, and unforgettable moments beneath the spring sky. But amid the beauty and celebration, hearts are on the line.

Some will fall in love.
Some will fall back in love.
And some will risk it all for the love they’ve been waiting for.

From acclaimed and bestselling Filipino American authors comes Love at the Fiesta, a joyful romance anthology filled with family, longing, second chances, and love.

Featuring stories by the Kwentitas:
Cat Santos
Celeste Dador
Elle Cruz
June Gray
Kaye Rockwell
Liz Durano
Maan Gabriel
Maida Malby
Mia Hopkins
Preslaysa Williams
Tif Marcelo

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Apple Books / Kobo

—

SNEAK PEEKS:
Rice – Mia Hopkins

“Look at us,” she whispered. They were wet up to their thighs. Their clothes and shoes were a mess of sand and seawater. Ace’s wet T-shirt clung to his torso. Pinky longed to strip it off him, to run her hands all over his skin.

“Guess we didn’t see that coming,” he said, breathless.

Overthinking was her specialty, but right now she didn’t allow herself to think at all. Pinky reached forward and placed her hands on his chest. She looked up at his lips. The wind almost carried away her whisper.

“Can I?”

Ace nodded slowly.

Blood rushing, she kissed him. A gust of cold wind whipped at them, but Ace’s lips were as warm and soft as she’d hoped. She tasted salt and smelled his skin—woodsy and clean, with something delicious in the background. Tea with honey. A gingersnap? No—hot salabat. Spicy and sweet.

When Ace finally closed his eyes, Pinky embraced him, and her brain lit up like a chandelier. She felt everything—his hands on her waist, the soft moan in his throat as she lightly pressed the tip of her tongue against his. He held her tightly, quieting her nerves but setting a fire deep inside her. The wind cut through her wet skirt and bit at her bare skin. The waves crashed. In the distance, seagulls called to each other, back and forth.

After a long, long time, Pinky broke their kiss. She snuggled against him and closed her eyes, overwhelmed with pleasure. His arms were cold, but his chest through the T-shirt was hot, and his heart was beating fast. They both could feel that he was hard as a rock, but he didn’t push himself against her. Horny, but polite—a refreshing combination.

“Do you…” she trailed off.

“Do I what?”

She winced. “Please don’t judge me.”

He stroked her hair. “I won’t.”

“Do you…live nearby?”

—

Bring Back The Love – Tif Marcelo

Two days of pretending.

That was all Emmy Briones had to endure. That shouldn’t be hard, right? After all, she’d done harder things in life while on stage as a wedding singer, as a mother to actual grownups, and as a wife in a twenty-two-year marriage that was in a weird stage of limbo.

Granted, it was two days under the watchful eye of the legendary Lola Naty, her husband’s grandmother and matriarch of the famous Hacienda Luz.

No big deal.

Emmy employed the box breathing she’d learned in couples therapy—because yes, she and Aaron were at that stage—and crossed over the threshold of Hacienda Luz while dragging their carry-ons, where the glimmer of the marble floors and the sparkle of the chandelier above took her breath away.

Already decorated for the fiesta, a traditional Santacruzan, the lobby was filled with multicolored flowers. People milled about, talking in hushed voices, many of whom wore shirts that bore the familiar logo of Hacienda Luz.

A step behind Aaron, she swallowed against the enormity of it all. Living in the DC area hadn’t exposed them to this grandeur on the daily, unlike the rest of the Briones and Moore families living in and around the Bay Area. Though she and Aaron had been engaged here, Emmy only kept up with the property’s happenings through social media posts from Aaron’s family.

At the remembrance of their engagement, of Aaron getting down on one knee and pledging his life to her, her chest welled with sorrow.

“Em.” In front of her, Aaron offered his hand. His brown eyes had a message in them, though she couldn’t quite discern his intent.

They’d been in sync, in their thoughts, in their hearts, and in their voices, until they weren’t.

Emmy was just hoping they could pull off this ruse, collect their fee, go back home to their life, and somehow move on from it. It was Aaron who was worried. That his family—specifically Lola Naty—would notice that she and he were not the happy couple everyone made them out to be.

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Book Blitz of The Flames of Soulflare by La Kayshal. (#Contests- Enter to win Paperback copy of The Flames of Soulflare (USA, UK, Canada or Australia only) -3x ebook copies of The Flames of Soulflare (INT))

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 25 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

The Flames of Soulflare
La Kayshal
(Hell’s Fire Dragon Series, #2)
Publication date: May 27th 2026

Genres: Fantasy, New Adult, Paranormal, Romance

Fourth Wing meets From Blood and Ash in this Dark Paranormal Romantasy where dragons fear prophecy—and love may be the final weapon.

Everin Haydon was stolen, tortured, and reshaped into the dreaded Hell’s Fire Dragon, bound as a weapon for a Dragon Council that calls itself righteous.

Across the realms, Lord Tynan, the Demon of Darkness and Chaos, has ascended. His arrival heralds the Three Days of Darkness, and he will burn heaven and earth to reclaim what fate bound to him—his power, his vengeance.
But one question if the demon has risen, where is the god meant to stop him?

As the dragon world waits for divine intervention, Everin must decide whether she will remain a weapon—or become the fate of the realms.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Apple Books / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

Dark themes including captivity and experimentation

Emotional conflict and intense character struggles
Violence and battle scenes
High-stakes situations involving power and survival

This book is best suited for readers who enjoy emotionally intense, character-driven romantasy.
Read Before You Decide

Before committing, please read the prologue.

This will give you a clear sense of the tone, pacing, and writing style.

Prologue:
Present Day

The moon hung quietly above Helldreth Fort, its pale glow spilling through the tall windows and brushing the chamber with soft silver. A cool breeze drifted in and stirred the white curtains, their edges sweeping lightly across Everin’s skin. She pulled her silk gown closer, grateful for the warmth of the room. It felt comforting, far more so than the terrible, dark place she had left behind.

Her steps carried her to the mirror in the corner. The reflection staring back looked thinner, as if her body had been carved down to something she hardly recognized.

The neckline of her nightie dipped too low to her liking, drawing her eye to the faint scars across her chest. The lamp light traced their uneven lines, pale and unsettling.

She touched them gently. Everin barely remembered how or when she got the scars.

She pulled the outer robe around her until it covered more of her chest. At least the scars were low enough to stay hidden unless she wore something too revealing.

A sound of footsteps behind her made her turn.

Tariel Fenwick, her first love, stood at the doorway.

Everin froze for a moment. He looked different—stronger, more defined, more man than the boy she remembered. His dark hair rested just above his shoulders with two thin braids at the sides of his head, framing a face sharpened by a faint stubble. His amber eyes, once so warm, now carried a deeper, shadowed intensity.

His shirt hung open across his chest, revealing sculpted muscle that rose with each slow breath, and a leather gauntlet, more like an open finger glove, hugged his left hand like a seamless extension of his skin.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. He saw that. A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips.

She straightened quickly. “We need to talk, Tariel.”

“Yes,” he replied, approaching her, “but not now.”

“There is a lot I want to understand,” she said quietly. “So much I don’t remember.”

“Later.” He reached her, lowering his voice. “I’ve long waited for this moment with you.”

He stepped closer.

She stepped back.

“You waited for me?” she whispered, searching his face.

“I did,” he said. “More than you know.”

He brushed a fingertip along her arm. She stiffened but felt a flicker of the old pull toward him, a warm memory trying to surface. Her eyes drifted briefly to his lips, those that she had kissed in the past, before she forced herself to look away.

His smirk deepened. “Are we shy now, Everin?” he murmured, amusement warm in his voice.

“It has been a while,” she managed. “Things are not the same.”

“We are,” he said, touching her jaw. “You still feel this.”

She backed away again, but he followed, closing in until she had no space left. Her leg hit the edge of the bed. She lost her balance and stumbled, falling backward onto the soft covers. Instantly, she pressed her elbow into the mattress as she tried to push herself upright and pull her short nightie into place, but she barely had a second.

By the time she braced herself, Tariel was already on the bed. One knee pressed into the mattress, and in a swift movement, he trapped her between his legs. His body loomed over hers, leaving her nowhere to go. His hand slid behind her back and pulled her closer. The other moved to her neck, his fingers settling at her pulse, firm enough to hold her from looking away.

His control was precise and deliberate.

“Tariel—” She sucked in a breath, fear slipping into her voice. “What are you doing?”

His lips hovered above hers, so close she could taste the hint of warmth in each breath he released.

“You belong to me,” he whispered, his voice shifting, deepening, curling around her like smoke. His eyes burned brighter, molten gold spilling across the darkness of his gaze. “You always have.”

Everin’s heart thrashed in her chest. Something ancient stared back at her through his eyes—something demanding, something claiming.

She tried to pull away. “You’re frightening me.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of her jaw. “You love me,” he whispered.

“You always have. And you will give yourself to me again.”

His mouth dragged slowly toward hers, teasing, commanding, his breath warm against her parted lips.

“I want you,” he said, low and certain. “I want all of you.”

“No.” Everin gasped, turning her head away as panic surged. “Stop. You’re not—”

His fingers tightened at her neck.

He didn’t stop. The Tariel she loved would have.

“I am yours,” he murmured.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Then her voice broke in a whisper—

“You’re not him. You’re not Tariel.”

The room fell silent. And everything inside her knew she was right.

Author Bio:

La Kayshal is an Australian writer of romance, YA, and children's fantasy novels. She lives with her husband, daughter, and a playful Malshi puppy in the coastal plains of the Sunny State.

Her debut novel, The Lost Crown, is an adventure romance set in the exotic landscapes of India. She also created the much-loved Sylph Series, a whimsical children’s collection that introduces readers to the amazing world of Sylphs, with each book carrying a gentle moral lesson.

A lifelong fan of wizards, magic, dragons, swords, and elementals, she poured all these passions into her YA fantasy Ariston Baker in the Weird Picture Book, a fast-paced journey filled with realms, riddles, action, and adventure.

Her latest project is the Hell’s Fire Dragon series. Book 1, The Flames of Darkness, is a YA Romantasy full of dragons, and Book 2 is set to be released soon.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram

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The Flames of Soulflare Blitz

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Book Blitz of A Hundred Black Sunrises by Tamela Miles.(#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.))

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Sun, 24 May 2026 16:55:27 +0000

A Hundred Black Sunrises: A Friday the 13th Story
Tamela Miles
Publication date: March 13th 2026
Genres: Adult, Horror, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense

A hundred different ways to break your heart, a hundred different ways to take your last breath. Sienna and Finn are exploring their strange attraction to each other until strange becomes something sinister. The clock is ticking as they fight to unravel the mystery of what draws them together on fateful Friday, the 13th.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Alisha gave her a knowing look and stood to light the candles in the center of the table. She used a remote to dim the lights in the room and sat down. The flickering light gave her brown skin an eerie glow as she chanted softly, summoning any spirit that may be nearby.

Sienna carefully studied Finn’s face. He turned his gaze from her aunt and smiled at her.

She impulsively grabbed his hand, and he squeezed hers in response. “You good?’

Before he could reply, a cold breeze chased the warmth from the room. Alisha shivered noticeably as she continued chanting. She abruptly went silent for long moments, eyes closed.

When she opened them, tears trailed down her cheeks. “So much sadness,” she murmured.

Sienna eagerly leaned forward. “What’s sad, Auntie? Who are you talking about?”

Alisha remained quiet, shaking her head slowly. “He…loved her very much. Too much to

let her fly free, as she should’ve.”

Finn and Sienna exchanged confused looks. “Who?” she asked.

“Poppy,” Alisha said gently, swiping the tears away with a quick hand. “I’m learning her story from the spirits.” She started to speak again and paused, her eyes going wide in alarm. “No!

Not him. Anyone but him.”

“Who are you talking about? What are the spirits telling you?”

Author Bio:

Tamela Miles is a school psychologist with an Ed.S and PPS credential and a graduate of California State University San Bernardino and California State University Dominguez Hills. She is also a former flight attendant. She grew up in Altadena, California in that tumultuous time known as the 1980s. She now resides with her family in the Inland Empire, CA. She's a horror/paranormal romance writer mainly because it feels so good having her characters do bad things and, later, pondering what makes them so bad and why they can never seem to change their wicked ways.

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A Hundred Black Sunrises Blitz

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Virtual Blog Tour of Her Silence by S.T. Ashman. (#Contests- Enter to win A Gift Card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Wed, 20 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. S.T. Ashman will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Nicole gets the call at 4 a.m. Her daughter Lacey was found in the woods beside her friend's dead husband. He was stabbed forty-four times. Lacey is barely alive. Covered in his blood. And completely mute.

She hasn't said a word since. Not to the police. Not to her husband. Not even to Nicole.

Nicole had Lacey at seventeen and swore her daughter would have a good life. Now Lacey is sitting in a cell, and Nicole's three grandchildren are left behind with a father who is losing it.

But Nicole knows her daughter. She isn't a cold-blooded murderer. Guilt didn't silence her. Fear did. Whatever happened in those woods scared Lacey more than prison.

So Nicole starts digging. But some secrets don't save people. They destroy them.

Read an Excerpt

I strode past carts and nurses, straight down the hall, and yanked open the door to room 12. But I wasn't ready for what was waiting inside. My body jerked back as my hand shot up to my neck. "Dear God."

Lacey sat upright on the bed, wearing a hospital gown. A doctor stood over her, shining a light into her eyes. Two nurses flanked him.

I almost didn't recognize her.

Her hair was soaked in dried blood. Matted. Tangled with dirt and leaves. Thick blood streaks ran down her neck and across her temple like Viking war paint. Her face and arms looked like someone had tried to wipe her clean with a wet napkin and given up halfway. Just smears of pink and red everywhere.

The bandage on her forehead was already smudged with red too.

Her eyes met mine. Brown, blank, dull. Nothing behind them.

"Sweetheart!" My voice fell apart. Tears burst out of me as I crossed the room in two desperate strides and grabbed her. Held her. Pressed her to my chest so tight nothing could tear her away again.

Not even the nurse who latched onto my arm.

"Ma'am, you can't be in here right now." Her voice was sharp and demanding.

I didn't move.

The other nurse came at me from the side. Hands on my other arm.

"You need to wait outside," she said, yanking at me.

"Get off me," I growled.

About the Author: S. T. Ashman is an American-German author who calls the beautiful U.S. Seacoast home. A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, she spent years working as a psychotherapist in the criminal justice system. The work gave her a rare window into the human mind, both the beautiful and the deeply shadowed. It's no wonder readers often say her characters feel real enough to step off the page.

When she's not crafting her next twisty tale, you'll find her chasing after her kids, nose-deep in a book, or curled up late at night with a horror movie and a husband who always falls asleep on the couch before the scary parts.

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@ashmanbooks
Instagrm: https://www.instagram.com/booksbyashman/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100094353614873
Website: http://www.ashmanbooks.com
Link to ARC on Netgalley: https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/book/830451
Goodreads giveaway: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/250496134-her-silence

Amazon preorder: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GX371KS8
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Review of The Vivaldi Cipher by Gary McAvoy. (#Contests- Enter to win an Amazon gift card-2 winners.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 18 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

THE VIVALDI CIPHER

by Gary McAvoy

May 4 - 29, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

VATICAN SECRET ARCHIVE THRILLER SERIES

During the election of a new Pope in the mid-18th century, famed violinist Antonio Vivaldi learns of a ring of art forgers who are replacing the Vatican's priceless treasures with expertly-painted fakes. Desperate, the composer hides a message in a special melody, hoping someone, someday, will take down the culprits . . .

Nearly three hundred years later, the confession of a dying Mafia Don alerts a Venetian priest to a wealth of forged paintings in the Vatican Museum, and the key to their identities lies hidden in a puzzling piece of music. Father Michael Dominic, prefect of the Secret Archives, investigates, and is mystified when he finds a cipher in an old composition from Vivaldi. Desperate to stop this centuries-long conspiracy, he calls on fellow sleuth Hana Sinclair and Dr. Livia Gallo, a music cryptologist, to help him crack the code and learn the truth.

But the Camorra, a centuries-old Italian Mafia clan, won't stand by while some interfering priest ruins their most lucrative operation. Along with a French commando and two valiant Swiss Guards, Dominic explores the dark canals and grand palazzos of Venice to uncover the evidence he needs to stop the sinister plot. Can he unearth it in time, or will the Church's most valuable artworks fall prey to this massive conspiracy?

The Vivaldi Cipher Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Suspense Thrillers, Historical Thriller
Published by: Literati Editions
Publication Date: August 16, 2021
Number of Pages: 400
ISBN: 9781954123076 (ISBN10: 1954123078)
Series: Vatican Secret Archive Thrillers, Book 1 | Learn More: Amazon | Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Audible

MY THOUGHTS:

I recently had the pleasure of listening to the audiobook version of The VIVALDI CIPHER. I generally prefer audiobooks over Kindle or print editions because narrators bring characters to life, allowing me to connect more deeply with their emotions. The author masterfully blends historical events with notable historical figures, enriching both the story and the plot. The novel reminded me at times of The Da Vinci Code, as its characters search for forgers behind some of the world’s most impressive and famous works of art. I also learned a great deal about ciphers, the Italian mafia, the Camorra, the Vatican, and Venice.

The narrator delivered a fantastic performance, capturing the nuances of each character and greatly enhancing the overall listening experience. While the author has written other historical novels, The Vivaldi Cipher stands strong as a standalone work. The story moves at a brisk pace, maintaining interest throughout with its blend of suspense and historical insight. The characters, particularly Father Michael Dominic and journalist Hanna Sinclair, form a strong duo as they unravel a centuries-spanning mystery. I give this novel 5 out of 5 stars. Highly recommended for anyone seeking a thrilling historical adventure.

Read an excerpt from The Vivaldi Cipher:

Prologue

Vatican City, Rome – February 1740

The first symptom of the poisoning began as a fever.

Sitting at one of two long, white-silk-draped tables in the Sistine Chapel, along with sixty-seven of his fellow cardinal-electors, Pietro Ottoboni cast his vote for pope on the eighth day of the conclave to replace the late Pope Clement XII.

Enfeebled by fever, the seventy-three-year-old Ottoboni made his way toward the front of the chapel to a small altar below Michelangelo’s majestic fresco The Last Judgment, dropped his ballot onto a brass saucer, then tipped the saucer, letting the ballot fall into the large brass urn beneath it.

A few moments later, having returned to his seat, the cardinal collapsed onto the table, the high temperature having sapped his energy. Shocked, the other cardinals stood to better see what was happening to their colleague. The master of papal liturgical celebrations suspended the conclave while they moved Ottoboni to his apartment under the care of a Vatican physician.

Long considered favorite among the papabili to succeed Pope Clement, Pietro Ottoboni was born in the Most Serene Republic of Venice to a rich and noble family, whose most distinguished member was his grand-uncle, Pope Alexander VIII. Ottoboni had held every important post in the Vatican during an illustrious career and, as cardinal-bishop to several churches in Italy, his annual salary exceeded fifty thousand gold scudi—the present-day equivalent of six million dollars per year.

Cardinal Ottoboni had been a prolific paramour with a countless number of lovers, many of whom were married to the great patricians of Venice. In fact, the famous masks unique to Venetians were introduced not to ward off the plague, as many later believed, but to officially disguise the wearer’s identity—thus permitting anyone, noble or peasant, to do or say whatever one pleased. With this ingenious permissiveness, affari di cuore—affairs of the heart—were as common as the fleet of gondolas plying the canals of the celebrated city, without legal recourse. Having taken full advantage of this liberal device, Cardinal Ottoboni was known to have produced up to seventy children in his lifetime among his various mistresses.

Though he lived well in Rome’s grand Palazzo della Cancelleria, Ottoboni’s greatest passions were music and art, and he was a generous patron to some of the most renowned masters in both fields: Arcangelo Corelli, Alessandro Scarlatti, Giuseppe Crespi, Tintoretto, Paolo Veronese—and most of all, to his close friend and protégé, the prodigious maestro di violino of Venice, Antonio Vivaldi.

As he lay on his deathbed, Ottoboni summoned Vivaldi to his side. In a low, rasping voice, the cardinal confided to his friend a tale of great importance, a scandalous operation run by the notoriously corrupt Cardinal Niccolò Coscia in league with the feared secret Mafia organization known as the Camorra.

In fact, he added with struggling breath, he was convinced it was Coscia, acting on orders from the Camorra, who had poisoned him to keep him from acting on what he knew. With information gleaned from one of his many spies, Ottoboni had discovered the ongoing scandal days earlier and approached Cardinal Coscia with a warning that he and his Camorra would soon be out of business, at least as far as the Vatican was concerned. Were it not for his required attendance in the papal conclave, he would have put a stop to it sooner, especially if he was elected pope, an elevation to supreme power that was expected by everyone.

The following day, however, Cardinal Ottoboni succumbed to the poison, killed for a secret now known only to Antonio Vivaldi.

Like most Italians, Vivaldi survived cautiously within the Camorra’s Venetian sphere of influence. The secret society’s tentacles reached into everyone’s life, and their strict enforcement of the seal of omertà—the sacred code of silence—ensured clan activities remained discreet and wholly within la familia. The family.

Since the late seventeenth century, the Camorra had carved out its territories, starting in Naples and moving northward into the Lombardy and Veneto regions of Italy, encompassing its most lucrative prizes, Milan and Venice. Competing with La Cosa Nostra in Sicily and the 'Ndrangheta of Calabria, the Camorra’s criminal enterprises included prostitution, gambling, smuggling, kidnapping, and art theft—but also the unusual niche of producing and selling fine art forgeries of the highest order.

During the earlier reign of Pope Benedict XIII, who cared little for managing his vast realm of Papal States, Cardinal Niccolò Coscia oversaw all Vatican government operations, taking advantage of his authority to carry out substantial financial abuses, virtually draining the papal treasury. But his ongoing misdeeds eventually caught up with him. In 1731, he was charged with corruption, tried and convicted to ten years' imprisonment, and excommunicated from the Church.

However, still not without influence, he managed to get his heavy sentence commuted to a mere fine. He was also mysteriously reinstated as a cardinal, allowing him to take part in the papal conclave of 1740—the one during which Cardinal Ottoboni had died.

* * *

With Ottoboni out of the way, Cardinal Niccolò Coscia could now carry out his master plan without hindrance. In his not-so-secret role as capo of the Roman Camorra, Coscia led development of the Veneto branch of the Mafia clan, based in Venice and headquartered in his own newly acquired Palazzo Feudatario on the Grand Canal. Purchased with funds he had discreetly absconded from the Vatican treasury, Feudatario would be a most fitting place to carry out his planned forgery operation of the Vatican’s most profound works of art.

Niccolò Coscia was a meticulous diarist and, owing to all the business he conducted outside the Church, he had created the first book to record the activities of his new organization, naming it Il Giornale Coscia della Camorra Veneta—The Coscia Journal of the Veneto Camorra. In it he would secretly record careful notations of all paintings by artist and title, including each work’s provenance and to whom the forgeries or originals were sold, depending on which he chose to return to the Vatican—for many were prominently displayed in public, while most were simply returned to the Vatican’s vast art storage vaults, unseen by anyone.

The Coscia Journal would be passed down to each capintesta, head of the Veneto Camorra, for generations.

Unfortunately for Coscia, Cardinal Ottoboni’s spies had discovered not only the Camorra’s abhorrent plan for art forgeries, but the very existence of the Coscia Journal for recording such transactions. At that point Ottoboni’s death was preordained, for no one could ever know such proof existed.

* * *

Antonio Vivaldi, who at age twenty-five was ordained a Roman Catholic priest, was now at a crossroads. He feared possessing knowledge of the treacherous secret passed on to him by his esteemed patron in his dying moments. Putting himself at odds with the Camorra was not just an unappealing prospect; it could end up costing him his life, depending on what he did with what he knew.

But Cardinal Ottoboni had one last request of his protégé.

Intent on stopping the sinful and unlawful activities of Cardinal Coscia, Ottoboni had pleaded with Vivaldi to see that Coscia was brought to justice, to pay for his felonious actions. Distressed by letting his friend and mentor die without the satisfaction of such a promise, Vivaldi agreed to do what he could. He would ensure that the authorities were informed, the Coscia Journal would be found, and the matter would be settled.

After the cardinal’s stately funeral, Vivaldi waited for the right moment to fulfill his promise. But as he waited, he became more apprehensive. He was just a lowly priest, after all, and not a very good one at that. The violin was his life, and teaching it was his life’s work. Besides, who would believe him? Where was the proof? And what would the Camorra do to him if he were to expose its business? He had seen the results of their retribution—those who crossed the Mafia were dealt with harshly. Beheadings were not uncommon, and those who weren’t beheaded were drawn and quartered—alive. No, he must find a way to honor his pledge without exposing himself to such horrible consequences.

An idea came to him: he would hide the messages in plain sight, in his musical compositions.

Picking up a sheet of staff lined manuscript paper, Vivaldi began to assemble the first of many, his Scherzo Tiaseno in Sol.

* * *

Venice, Italy—Present Day

An enormous flight of pigeons, hundreds of them, flocked overhead, diving for potato chips and bits of bread sticks tourists had enthusiastically tossed out for them, as Father Michael Dominic and Hana Sinclair made their way across the Piazza San Marco.

Despite the ban on pigeon-feeding in St. Mark’s Square, little children were oblivious to the law and more amused by the flapping gray-and-white spectacle than frightened by the few gendarmerie patrolling the square, whose policing efforts to stop the feeding were futile. Venetian health experts estimate over 130,000 pigeons had roosted in the historic center—well over optimal concentrations for such a small public space—and efforts to rid the city of the determined birds had failed miserably. The damage to the marble buildings and statuary was considerable, not to mention possible pathogenic health hazards.

Locals knew it was often prudent to cover one’s head with a newspaper or magazine when crossing the vast piazza, lest strollers subject themselves to the inevitable bombardment of bird droppings from above.

An old hand at the practice, Father Dominic had kept pages of the newspaper he had read at breakfast for that very purpose, knowing he and Hana had to cross the piazza in order to get to Venice’s Biblioteca Marciana, the Library of Saint Mark.

The director of the library had requested the Vatican’s help with a planned exhibition of manuscripts held in its stacks, and as Prefect of the Vatican Secret Archives, Michael Dominic had accepted the invitation, while also taking a week’s vacation time in the fabled city. At only thirty-one years old, his access to the Vatican’s vast number of historical manuscripts still humbled him. The Biblioteca Marciana was yet one more repository of ancient wonders that fascinated him.

Lovingly named La Serenissima by Italians devoted to its “most serene” natural and historical wonders, Venice was also Michael Dominic’s favorite city in the world. He loved its vibrancy, its rich history as a major world trading port up to and through the Renaissance period and, of course, the inherent romantic nature of the people and their ancient ways.

“I’m so glad you could join me, Hana,” Dominic said as they walked through the piazza. “Have you ever experienced Carnivale before?”

Holding the newspaper awkwardly over her stylish wide brim straw hat, Hana replied with a contented sigh. “I was here once, years ago, but Carnivale had just ended. I’ve been meaning to be here for the real festivities for some time now, and since my editors wanted a piece on the celebration for Le Monde’s Weekend Section, I volunteered for the assignment.”

She looked up at the priest and smiled. “Thanks for letting me tag along with you, Michael. I don’t mind that you have a little business to attend to. I need some time off myself and can always float around in a gondola and take notes while you’re occupied.”

Dominic laughed as he removed the newspaper from over his head, having passed the worst pigeon zone. He took Hana’s paper and tossed them both in a trash receptacle alongside the library façade. “I can just see you now, laid out on a shiny black gondola, that fetching hat drawing everyone’s eye as you cruise the canals. A fashion photographer’s dream. But let’s have some fun together while we’re here as well.”

“Agreed. I can get some writing done after dinner each night,” she said with a sly grin. “So, what’s in this library that you’ve been asked to weigh in on?”

“I’m meeting with Paolo Manetti, the curator of the Marciana’s Cardinal Bessarion Library, a special wing containing the original founder’s collection of books and precious manuscripts from 1468. The Vatican has an original translation of Homer’s Iliad, a companion version to his Odyssey, but the Marciana has the oldest actual texts of the Iliad. Manetti has asked me to consider lending ours to the Marciana for a temporary exhibition on Homer. They also have the only autograph copy of commentary on the Odyssey from the twelfth century, so it should be a fine showcase.”

Fascinated as she was by Dominic’s explanation, Hana’s eyes glazed as the warm sun took hold of her, her white cotton midi skirt fluttering in the light breeze. They had passed the tall brick Campanile and were now walking through the piazzetta between the Marciana Library and the Doge’s Palace, heading toward the entrance to the Grand Canal. It wasn’t quite noon yet, the appointed time for Dominic’s meeting, so they settled onto a stone bench near the traghetto, the gondola landing overlooking the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore on the island across the lagoon. Vaporetti, gondolas, and sleek mahogany water taxis plied the calm waters as they sat there, each in their own dreamy state of mind, an effect Venice had on every visitor.

As the tower bells of the Campanile struck twelve, Dominic leaned back for a deep stretch to rouse himself, then stood and reached out for Hana’s hand to help her up. With one last glance over the lagoon, they headed toward the library.

Chapter 1

Present Day

The entrance to the Marciana Library Palace—heavy wooden doors flanked by two larger-than-life Greek marble statues—opened into the opulent vestibule, where a two-flight staircase took visitors to the upper loggias.

Looking up as they walked the marble halls, Hana fixated on the ceiling, which featured twenty-one roundels, circular oil paintings by seven notable Renaissance artists commissioned in 1556. They looked as fresh today as at the time they were painted, Hana mused, overwhelmed by their unusual spherical beauty. Reaching one of the reading rooms, sunlight streamed in from the high glass ceiling, bathing the three-story room in a diffused natural light. Surrounding the reading tables on all sides were a series of Doric arches with a handsome frieze on one wall featuring rosy-faced cherubs and garlands of fruit and flowers.

A slim, well-dressed man with long, black hair who looked to be in his fifties was walking toward them, a welcoming smile on his face. Dominic smiled in response as the man approached.

“Padre Michael, welcome back to the Marciana!” he beamed as he extended his hand.

“Paolo! What a great pleasure to see you again. This is my friend and colleague, Hana Sinclair. Hana, this is Paolo Manetti, curator of the Bessarion Library here.”

The three exchanged handshakes and pleasantries. Then Manetti turned, gesturing for them to follow him.

“We’ll be using my private office to view the Iliad. Better to keep tourists from flocking around us. I already have it set up.”

He led them through the upper loggia and down a corridor leading to various offices, entering a corner room that overlooked the piazzetta and the lagoon.

“Not only do you have a stunning library here, Signor Manetti,” Hana remarked, “but you probably have the best office in the building!”

Manetti grinned shyly. “Please, call me Paolo, Miss Sinclair. And yes, I am very fortunate to have such a wondrous place to work. What you see around you is my life. Like our friend Michael here, my love for antiquities of the Old World has no bounds.”

Dominic nodded in agreement, then turned to his companion. “Hana, if you’d like to better explore the library while Paolo and I are working, please feel free. We should only be a half hour or so. Take it all in; it truly is a marvelous old building filled with treasures you won’t find anywhere else.”

“I’ll do that, thanks. Just come find me when you’re ready.” Hana turned and left the office, making her way back to the reading rooms and their glorious artworks and statuary.

A large table in the center of Manetti’s office held several reference books, various implements for examining documents—a digital microscope, magnifying glass, blacklight, leather sandbag weights—and several large parchment manuscripts which had been laid out on it. One in particular was the chief item of interest: the only copy of the commentary on Homer's Odyssey written entirely by the hand of the author.

Putting on a pair of white gloves, Dominic handled the manuscript guardedly, gazing at the beautiful script by the hand of Eustathius of Thessalonica, the Byzantine scholar and rhetorician of the twelfth century.

“This is our finest treasure, Michael, and one of the oldest in the library,” Manetti said. “It will be one of the principal features of our exhibition. But now, look at this.”

With a gentle flourish, he reached across the table and pulled over two comparable manuscripts.

“These are Venetus A and Venetus B, the oldest texts of Homer's Iliad, with centuries of Greek scholia written in the margins.”

As Dominic recalled, since the first century, ancient commentators known as scholiasts would insert grammatical or explanatory notations, even critical commentary, in the margins of the manuscripts of early authors. Over time, centuries in fact, successive copyists or those who owned a particular manuscript altered the scholia, and sometimes the practice expanded so much that there was no longer room for scholia in the margins, so it became necessary to produce them as separate works. No copy machines, just dedicated scribes working with Egyptian reed pens and feather quills to patiently reproduce one-of-a-kind originals.

“These are truly extraordinary, Paolo,” Dominic declared, his hands shaking slightly as he held the ancient parchments. “I can certainly see why you’d want to share these in your exhibition. I can confidently say the Vatican will cooperate in any way we can. I’ll make arrangements for the original translation of Homer’s Iliad to be couriered to you when I return to Rome. I assume you’ll have appropriate security arrangements in place?”

“Of course, Michael. Apart from our own security detail, the federal Carabinieri has offered to provide full protection for us. We are simply the custodians of these masterpieces, but they are part of Italy’s proud heritage and the government takes that responsibility quite seriously.

“And thank you for your generous contribution, Michael,” he continued. “Your Iliad will be in excellent hands, I can assure you.”

“When we spoke last week,” Dominic said, “you mentioned another piece you wanted to discuss?”

Manetti turned somber. “Yes, there is something else I need to show you, and I’d like to get your opinion on it. This came to us recently from a local donor who wishes to remain publicly anonymous, and while its value is undeniable and a welcomed donation to our collection, I am not quite sure what to make of its meaning.”

The curator rummaged about the other manuscripts on the table, his gloved hands repositioning each document carefully, until he found what appeared to be an autograph musical manuscript, with staff lines and bars of musical notations, placed inside a small Mylar protective sleeve. While it was in relatively good condition, given its apparent antiquity, its corners had been chipped and there were many creases across the paper, as if someone had folded it many times at some point. Its size was quite small, a half sheet of standard paper at most.

“Well, this looks interesting, though I must admit I know little about musical manuscripts. Who is it by?” Dominic asked.

As he peered closely at the manuscript, Hana returned from her brief tour of the library and walked up to stand silently next to the two men. She glanced at the object of their attention while Manetti continued.

“This, my friend, was penned by the hand of Venice’s own maestro di violino Antonio Vivaldi. He gave it the title Scherzo Tiaseno in Sol, and it appears to be a scherzo in the truest, most literal meaning of that word—a joke! It is a fair enough piece of music, but nowhere near the level one would expect from a Baroque master like Vivaldi. If it is a joke, then the question is, why? And for whom? There must be more than meets the ear.

“This is marked as page two, so there may still exist a page one somewhere. The donor was rather circumspect on the matter, but as Vivaldi was her sixth great-grand-uncle, the provenance is well established.” Manetti looked up at Dominic questioningly and shrugged.

As Hana read the notes, she weighed in. “You’re right, Paolo. This isn’t anything close to what Vivaldi was known to have composed. And scherzos are normally in three, like a waltz, but this has the bar lines in the wrong place. There must be some other meaning to it.”

“You read music?!” Dominic asked her, somewhat taken aback.

“Of course, I studied music for years at St. Stevens School, and I play both the piano and cello,” she replied, a shy smile playing across her face.

“Will wonders never cease with you?” Dominic asked, grinning mischievously.

“Oh, please,” she said modestly. “We all have our secret talents. And I can hardly travel around with a cello.”

Turning to the curator, she asked, “Paolo, may I have a closer look at this?”

“Of course, signorina,” he said encouragingly.

Hana accepted the Mylar sleeve from Dominic and took a seat by one of the windows. Reading the music, she hummed the notes, emitting a series of high, low, and mid-range sounds which produced no tune whatsoever.

“Okay, this is really strange. There is nothing here that might even imply that an artist with Vivaldi’s genius was creating anything good, much less great. But why would he do that? From what I know, he wrote beautiful music feverishly, wasting not a precious second on something like this. But there must be a reason.”

“I completely agree, signorina,” Manetti said, nodding. “But what are we to do with this? We must have some kind of explanation for such an artifact if we are to display it.”

Hana had a thought. “Paolo, can you make a copy of this for me? I have an old friend, Dr. Livia Gallo, my former music teacher at St. Stevens, who is an expert in Vivaldi and other Baroque masters. Maybe she has some idea of what this might represent?”

Manetti was delighted. “Yes! I would be happy to provide you with a copy if it helps to better understand this. You must assure me that you will not share it with anyone else except your colleague, yes? Until we understand it better, I wouldn’t want speculations to be awkward for our donor.”

“Yes, of course, only Dr. Gallo will see it. For that matter, it’s small enough that I can just take a photo of it with my iPhone. Would that be acceptable?”

“Better yet,” Manetti replied. “That way there are no loose copies to get lost. Oh, and please do not use the flash.”

Hana returned the manuscript to the table, removed her phone from her bag, then took a full frame shot of the piece under natural light.

“Paolo,” Dominic asked, “might we get an introduction to your donor, this Vivaldi descendant? Hana and I may be able to get more relevant information from her that can assist Dr. Gallo. Where does she live?”

“Here in Venice, in one of the great palazzos on the Grand Canal. I don’t think the contessa would mind at all, actually. She’s quite the conversationalist.”

“A contessa?!” Hana asked, surprised.

“Oh yes, she comes from a very old noble line herself and married well, besides. Contessa Donatella Vivaldi Durazzo. She must be in her eighties now, a delightful woman, very generous in her philanthropy. She is one of the jewels of Venice, a wonderful patron of the arts, adored by everyone. She lives in Palazzo Grimaldi in the Dorsoduro, not far from the Guggenheim Museum. I would be pleased to make an introduction.”

“Excellent! We’ll be here all week, Paolo, and it would be a treat to see one of the famed palazzos on the Grand Canal,” Dominic said excitedly. “Not to mention meeting Italian nobility.”

Manetti smiled assuringly at his old friend.

“We’re staying at the Ca’ Sagredo, Paolo,” Hana said. “You can reach us there, but here’s my mobile number if you need us at any time.” She wrote down her number on a slip of paper and handed it to Manetti.

“Grazie, signorina. I will make the call this evening and let you know when she is available.”

“Where to now?” Hana asked Dominic as they left the building, having said their goodbyes to Manetti.

“I thought we’d have a bite of lunch at Quadri, then saunter over to St. Mark’s Basilica and say hello to a friend of mine from my seminary days. We’ve come all this way, and I’d hate to miss seeing him.”

“Lead the way,” Hana said breezily, placing her wide-brimmed straw hat back on her head. “I’m ready for some fresh seafood, aren’t you?”

“You bet. Just watch out for pigeons, though, as I’ve tossed the newspapers.”

Chapter 2

Among the many fine palazzos lining the Grand Canal is an understated, three-story ocher palace, somewhat more slender than its neighbors but nonetheless impressive. Its more observable features include a grand entrance off the gondola traghetto, with a black, scalloped awning over the brick staircase leading up from the water’s edge; several full-width balconies with ornamental balustrades at each end; heavily draped, arched picture windows overlooking the canal—and a cadre of armed security guards posted around the grounds of Palazzo Feudatario.

As a glossy mahogany water taxi approached the dock, two beefy men appeared from the palazzo’s entrance to greet the sole visitor on board, a priest called to administer last rites to the dying master of the house—a man known to all of Venice as Don Lucio Gambarini, the capintesta, or head-in-chief of the Veneto Camorra.

A stout man in his sixties, Don Gambarini had suffered a paralyzing stroke some weeks prior, and as his health had further declined, his death was not unexpected. In the meantime, the capintriti, heads of the twelve districts under Don Gambarini’s leadership, had assembled in the grand house, set to squabbling as to who would take over as leader of the clan when the great capintesta met his end.

But that was hardly on Gambarini’s mind when Father Carlo Rinaldo entered the formal master bedroom to hear the Don’s confession and administer extreme unction, the final anointing with last rites before death. Rinaldo had never met Gambarini before, though he was aware of the Don’s reputation, one deserving of a robust confession if he were truly repentant.

The large, well-appointed bedroom had many people standing around, vying for the boss’s attention should he wish to suddenly name one of them as his successor. But Gambarini would have none of it yet, demanding the bedroom be cleared except for the priest, who would hear his confession privately.

As everyone ambled out of the room, giving each other dark glances, the door was closed as Rinaldo placed a violet stole around his neck, then reached into his black leather bag and withdrew a small bottle of holy water, a crucifix, and his Bible.

“Don Gambarini, my name is Father Rinaldo, from St. Mark’s. Do you wish to make a confession?”

“Where is my regular priest, Father Viani?”

“I’m afraid he is on sabbatical, signore, and will not return for some time. He entrusted his duties to me in his absence.”

Gambarini looked wide-eyed at the priest for a long while, trembling, gauging his predicament. Rinaldo found terror in the man’s eyes. Not an uncommon occurrence for one so close to death, but there was something more. Some heavy burden the man was struggling with. All the priest could do was wait for his penitent to make the first move.

“Father, I do wish to make a confession,” Gambarini began, “but it is not one you are going to like.”

“I make no judgments at all, signore. I am but the Lord’s servant in this matter. He alone passes judgment. But that depends on how you wish to leave this life, carrying with you the dark burden of your transgressions, or absolved of sin in His light.” Rinaldo gestured upward as he said this.

Gambarini paused, glanced around the room, then looked deep into the priest’s eyes. “Before we begin, Father, I must ask of you an important favor, for my sins are so great, my penance must include some action on your part—but only after I am dead.

“What I am about to tell you involves a serious crime against the Vatican itself, an offense which has been ongoing for centuries, and still takes place to this very day. I fear I will not have God’s full absolution unless this matter is revealed once and for all. And you must be the one to tell it to others, so that it will stop. Is that agreeable?”

Such an unusual request completely mystified Rinaldo. Never had he been asked to play a part in a confessor’s penance. And to do so, he would have to break the sacred seal of the confessional; he was uncertain if having permission to do so by the penitent absolved him of that restraint. He would have to speak with someone about that later.

He walked across the room and picked up a chair. Placing it next to Gambarini’s bed, he took a seat. He paused a moment to consider the situation.

“Let me hear your confession, my son. If it is within my power, I will do my part as you ask.”

***

Author Bio:

Gary McAvoy is an American novelist known for internationally bestselling thrillers that blend historical intrigue, religious scholarship, and modern suspense. A lifelong researcher of rare manuscripts and Church history, he draws on extensive archival study to craft narratives rooted in authentic detail. His work includes the Vatican Secret Archive Thrillers, the Magdalene Chronicles, and the Vatican Archaeology Thrillers. Before turning to fiction, McAvoy built a distinguished career as an entrepreneur, technology consultant, and collector of historical documents. He now writes full time from the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to explore the shadowed crossroads of faith, power, and history.

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Spotlight of A Change In Plans by Mike Martin a Cozy Mystery with a couple of Dead Bodies.

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 18 May 2026 04:00:00 +0000

Food, family, friends and a few dead bodies…

RCMP officer Winston Windflower’s rare afternoon off gets interrupted when a hit and run turns into murder and he must pull together a team of Mounties from Newfoundland to resolve the crime. Following the money and fentanyl— and bodies—Windflower and his team join forces with police officers in southern Ontario to take down an international drug-smuggling ring.

Windflower must face personal doubts and fears when fellow Mountie Fil Romano is kidnapped. While the higher-ups at HQ make plans to give safe passage to the drug lords in return for Romano’s life, Windflower worries Romano will get caught in the crossfire. Windflower again looks to his friends and allies for help in the difficult hours and days ahead.

╰┈➤Book Details

Genre: Mystery
Sub-genre: Cozy Mystery/Police Procedural
Language: English
Pages: 278
Paperback ISBN: TBA

A Change in Plans is available at Amazon.

╰┈➤Here’s What Readers Have To Say!

“

╰┈➤Read if you love…

Mystery

̷̊̊̊̊̊ International Drug-Smuggling Ring

Kidnapping

Dead Bodies

Canadian Mounties to the Rescue

Edge of Your Seat Excitement

Excerpt:

Summer was nearing its end in the small town of Grand Bank on the eastern shore of Canada. Winston Windflower, husband, father and RCMP officer, was enjoying some quiet time while his wife, Sheila Hillier, and their two girls, Amelia Louise and Stella, were in St. John’s for their annual back-to-school shopping spree. He was alone except for his four-legged friends. Lady, an eight-year-old collie, was still frisky and ready to go for a walk as always. Molly, the cat, was ageless and just about lifeless as she sat in her bed waiting for the next treat to fall in front of her.

It was a fine, sunny day as Windflower looked out of their home onto the Atlantic Ocean. Because it was so nice, he had taken the afternoon off for picking berries. The summer had been unusually hot and sticky, and that meant the berries were out a little earlier than usual. His fervent hope was that his special picking spot had not been disturbed by early pickers trampling down bushes and limiting the harvest.

If things went well, he could pick a gallon of berries in a couple of hours, and if he was super lucky, Sheila would make something fabulous with the blueberries when she got back. Maybe a pie or even one of her blueberry specialties. Windflower salivated when he imagined all of that deliciousness. He grabbed a couple of Tupperware containers and a bottle of water and then headed for his favourite spot.

There was a congregation of berry pickers at the closest picking location, just past the clinic. Bent over, they paid him little attention. He didn’t mind being ignored. The area was too busy and crowded for him. He took the trail down by the brook and then up the hill to the lookout. He paused for a moment to take in the majestic view of Grand Bank. Windflower glanced over the brook to the town and the wharf, all the way to the craggy outcrop that the locals called the Cape. Then he continued on up over the hill and towards the other side.

He veered off the path about halfway down and was very pleased to find his desired location calm and untouched. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Creator and began his task. Some people would have thought of this as work, but Windflower found berry picking both meditative and spiritual. It reconnected him to the land and made him think of his early days growing up on the reserve in Pink Lake, Alberta. His Cree family would all go berry picking for the day, bringing a lunch and a kettle to make tea.

He soon had one container filled and was working on the second when his pocket buzzed. He checked the number on his phone. It was Corporal Samira Gupta, his right-hand assistant, calling from the bigger community of Marystown. He had made arrangements with his boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, that he would take the job as acting inspector for the region as long as he could stay in Grand Bank and have an assistant in Marystown. Gupta filled her role perfectly.

“What’s up, Corporal?” asked Windflower.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Gupta. “Betsy said you were off. But I thought you should know. We had a hit and run in Marystown. Over near Walmart. A woman in her forties is in hospital. Sergeant Tizzard is on the scene.” Eddie Tizzard was one of Windflower’s long-time friends and co-workers. They’d been working together for the last 10 years in one way or another.

“That’s a dangerous area,” said Windflower. “How is the woman?”

“She was unconscious when they brought her to the hospital in Burin,” said Gupta. “But no other information so far.”

“And the driver?”

“We’re working on it. Tizzard has a team doing interviews from the scene.”

“It’s busy around there. Somebody would have seen something.”

“That was our thinking, too,” Gupta agreed. “If we don’t get anything back soon from the canvass, we’ll do a media hit.”

“Perfect. Keep me posted.”

Now that his reverie had been disrupted, Windflower packed up his stuff and headed back down to his car. He was driving towards home when he noticed the driver of a passing car flashing their headlights at him. He slowed down and pulled over and then went to see if they were okay. As he got closer, he squinted to see Moira Stoodley, co-owner of the Mug-Up Café, the best and only diner in Grand Bank, in the driver’s seat. She was also the wife of his best friend, Herb Stoodley, who was tutoring him in two very diverse subjects—classical music, about which Windflower knew next to nothing before he met Herb, and trout and salmon fishing, which he thought he had mastered but now realized he was only a beginner.

He assumed Moira had stopped him to say hello or to pass along a message from her husband. But it was much more serious.

“I saw Mike Winger, that crazy-looking guy, back on the road,” said Moira. “It looked like his wheelchair had tipped over. A few young fellers were helping him get back up. But he looked in bad shape. Had a cut over his forehead. I asked him if he was okay. He told me to mind my business and went on home. You might want to check in on him.”

It wasn’t exactly his job to look after wandering locals, but it had become expected of the lone police officer in the community. He may have the high and mighty title of acting inspector, but his day job consisted of part-time social worker, youth counsellor and senior companion when he wasn’t solving crimes or directing the limited amount of traffic that Grand Bank produced.

Helping citizens in distress certainly fell into his ‘other related duties’, and Mike Winger seemed to be in constant need of assistance of one kind or another. Mostly of his own doing.

Windflower knew a little about the man from his many interactions with him. Winger was an American and a veteran of the Gulf Wars. After he left the military, he got certified as a refrigeration mechanic and started wandering around, first in the United States and then into Canada. He ended up in the Grand Bank area working for fish plants and discovered a place where nobody really knew him but welcomed him anyway.

Mike Winger finally felt at home. He bought a house and found a girl who eventually moved in.

His life seemed perfect until… the crash that changed his life. His girlfriend was killed instantly as his car slid off the highway to avoid a moose one late spring morning. He was left with one leg paralyzed and the other badly damaged. Stuck with his feeling of loss and grief, he turned to alcohol and then drugs. Then he became mean and isolated. His scooter was his only escape, but even that turned out to be another source of problems.

Windflower had rescued him and the scooter more times than he could remember. From ditches by the side of the road. From a farmer’s field. From the pub, more than once, when he had been asked to leave, none too politely. One time from the cemetery, although Windflower wasn’t exactly sure how that happened. Mike Winger was certainly one of Windflower’s pet irritants in Grand Bank. But since neither of them were going anywhere soon, they had figured out how to survive, if not get along, together.

– Excerpted from A Change in Plans by Mike Martin, Ottawa Press and Publishing, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

Mike Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.

He is the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 17 books in this light mystery series with the publication of A Change in Plans.

A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.

Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.

Mike is Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.

Visit Mike’s website at https://sgtwindflowermysteries.com.

Connect with him on social media at:

╰┈➤ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheWalkerOnTheCapeReviewsAndMore

╰┈➤ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mike54martin

Book Blitz of Mr. Emotionally Un Stable by Alina Jacobs. (#Contests-wi a signed copy of Mr. Emotionally Unstable.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 12 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Mr. Emotionally Unstable: A Romantic Comedy
Alina Jacobs
Publication date: May 5th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Someone is breaking into my house… and cleaning my kitchen.
At first, I think I’ve lost my mind. Then I decide it’s kinda nice—until the death threats start.

But worrying about stalkers is for people with disposable time.
Which I do not have, thanks to my entire family showing up unannounced to move in with me.
Yay! Surprise houseguests!

As a mature adult woman in her thirties, my stalker is the closest thing to a relationship I’ve had in years. No one’s lining up for a curvy woman with a bad attitude, bras with holes in them, and zero tolerance for man-children.
And no, Mom, I don’t need you giving my number to every creepy guy you meet at the grocery store.
I’m perfectly happy being single. I have my café, my neurotic overweight border collie, and the shadowy figure peering into my window. I don’t need a man.
Except… I do need to find my newly single little sister a boyfriend-slash-meal-ticket so she (and the rest of my houseguests) will move out.
I’d toss her to my mystery stalker, but he did my laundry, and I’m not ready to give up on those perks yet. Besides, I’ve already got the perfect man for her: billionaire, hot, and way out of my league.
Better yet, I no longer have a crush on him, at least not since Fitzgerald Svensson served me eviction papers with a side of insults disguised as flirting.

Now he keeps showing up at my sister’s dates.
Yes, it’s a group activity. We’re recreating our toxic childhood dynamics here, m’kay?
Which means he must be interested… right?
Only problem—he’s hanging around me instead of her.

But it’s an even bigger problem when I wake up one night pinned by a six-foot-five male with his hand over my mouth, his knee spreading my legs, whispering in my ear, “Surprise, Creampuff.”

This is a standalone romantic comedy with a food delivery addicted dog, a hilarious Granny and a heroine of a certain age who has lowered her standards. HEA guaranteed!

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

I follow their horrified gaze. “Creampuff,” I say, voice low, jaw locked so tight it might crack, “you sicced your granny on me? And here I thought you liked me.”

I’m not flirting.

I’m furious.

Because my lobby—my tower—is full of topless senior citizens with knitting needles, terrifying half my hotel clients. I take pride in my hotels. French antiques sourced myself, bespoke carpeting, and my hand-selected marble foyer backdrop a dozen bare breasts swaying like revolutionary flags.

“I’ve cast three hundred stitches of rage!” her grandmother roars, holding up a half-finished scarf like a battle banner.

“Get rid of them,” I snarl at her.

Winnie takes a nervous step back, eyes wide.

Good—she should be nervous.

“You stole my café,” she fires at me.

“And you threw coffee on me.” My voice is cold. Sharp. “Get these women out of my tower. Now.”

She hesitates. Like she’s considering taking their side.

Of course she is.

“Maybe they have a point,” she mutters.

I stare at her.

“Are you going to whip your shirt off and join them?” I snap.

Her face goes strawberry-jam red as my eyes drag—slowly—from her chest back to her mouth.

Her breath catches.

I feel it.

I ignore it.

“I wouldn’t. This is—we’re in public.”

I give her a sharp smile. “Do that,” I offer, “and I might let the protest continue.”

She swallows hard.

I step up to her, crowding her with my height. Sure, flirting’s fun, but this is business.

Her eyelashes flutter.

“And here I thought,” I say, “I was one of your biggest clients.”

Her face blanches. Sure, the fresh-pastry budget is an insignificant line item to me, but to her small business? It’s a lifeline.

She looks like she wants to die.

Good. Let her feel the pressure. She’s not the only one who can be cornered. If she loses this hospitality contract, she’s finished. We both know it.

But only I know that I won’t rip up the contract.

Set her free?

Never. She belongs to me. Wholly.

She just doesn’t realize it yet.

I follow her as she rushes toward her grandmother, my hands jammed in my pockets, in full control as I slowly trail her.

Over by the fireplace, two elderly women string up a knitted banner.

KNOTS NOT HOTELS!

“You need to grow a pair,” her granny is shouting at her. “You can’t let a man treat you like shit and still expect to hit that.”

My eyebrow lifts.

Winnie glances back at me. “He’s not hitting anything.”

“If you don’t get these half-naked elderly women out of my tower, I might.”

“Gran…” Winnie begs.

Her granny steps into my space, hands up for a fistfight.

“You’re a bully.”

“Booo!”

“Bread, not beds!”

“Crochet, don’t pay!”

The topless women encircle us.

I squeeze my eyes shut. If they’re not Winnie’s, I don’t want to see them.

“He acts like he’s never seen tits before,” Granny Frances huffs. “Maybe you should fuck the neighbor’s son, Winn.”

My eyes snap open. Straight to Winnie.

Heat. Anger. Something darker. “Is that why you refused to go on a date with me, Creampuff?”

Her chin lifts. “No. I refused because I hate you.”

I exhale, steady, even. Then I reach up and undo my tie. Watch her eyes bug out as she realizes what I’m doing.

“NO CROISSANTS, NO PEACE!”

I twist off my dress shirt. It’s not lost on me that her gaze slides down my face to my collarbone, down my chest, down…

The chanting starts to trail off.

“Are we sure he needs to be protested?”

Author Bio:

I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold, kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.

When I’m not writing I can be found drinking tea, surrounded by my massive to-be-read pile! So many books...

You can connect with me on social media or find information on my books at my website.

Sign up for my newsletter so that you can get information about new releases, giveaways, and more!

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Bookbub / Newsletter

GIVEAWAY!

Mr. Emotionally Unstable Blitz

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Spotlight of The First Daughter by Marlie Parker Wasserman.(#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 11 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

FIRST DAUGHTER

by Marlie Parker Wasserman

May 4-29, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

In the summer of 1895, President Grover Cleveland and his pregnant wife, Frances, retreat to their secluded Cape Cod home, eager to avoid Washington’s heat and hassles. The very day that Frances gives birth, their three-year-old daughter vanishes. A ransom note surfaces, demanding a mysterious and peculiar sum.

Is the kidnapper a political enemy or someone closer to home? Secret service agents chase multiple leads but reach dead ends. Desperate, Frances Cleveland searches for answers on her own. As the hunt continues, the kidnapper carefully plots each move and determines to settle a score.

The historical record documents threats against the Clevelands, but no actual kidnapping. Yet, what if the president and his wife, known for keeping secrets, concealed a terrifying chapter of their lives? In this gripping blend of fact and fiction, the line between public duty and private anguish blurs in a mother’s fight to save her child.

Praise for First Daughter:

"Arresting, brilliant, emotional! Marlie Wasserman's First Daughter had me hooked from the very first page. Like her other works, fact and fiction are delightfully blurred by the fantastic level of historical detail, creating an exhilarating ride through the kidnapping of President Grover Cleveland's first child and his obscure misdeeds."
~ Jane L. Rubin, author of the award-winning Gilded City series

"In this masterfully woven historical thriller, the past comes alive with rich detail and taut suspense. In the summer of 1895, President Grover Cleveland and his wife retreat to their Cape Cod estate, seeking respite from political turmoil-until their three-year-old daughter vanishes. A ransom note surfaces, but is the culprit a political enemy or someone in their household? Seamlessly blending fact and fiction, this novel delivers a riveting tale of betrayal, resilience, and a mother's relentless quest for truth."
~ Maryka Biaggio, award-winning author of Gun Girl and the Tall Guy and The Model Spy

"A parent's worst nightmare unfolds for President and Frances Cleveland - their daughter is kidnapped. And no one knows why she was taken. The real motive behind the kidnapping may lie closer to home than anyone dares to imagine. First Daughter is a thrilling tale that clutches your heart and won't let go. This haunting historical mystery steeped in vivid period detail explores the cost of secrets and the burden of public life, wrapped in a mother's relentless instinct to protect her family-no matter the consequences."
~ JF Tanner, author of The King's Collar

"Grabbed from the very first page, Wasserman's tale of the abduction of President Grover Cleveland's young daughter Ruth (Baby Ruth) delivers Gilded Age details, tense characters and no bigger problem than a child in danger. With the deftly structured combination of Frances Cleveland's determination to bring justice to her family and a parallel hard luck tale, readers will forget this is non-fiction."
~ Chris Keefer, author of Find Your Way to My Grave a Carrie Lisbon Mystery

"First Daughter is an intriguing and intricately-plotted historical mystery novel. I loved the depth of research and the evocative setting of President Grover Cleveland's summerhouse Gray Gables at Buzzards Bay. I look forward to reading more from Marlie Parker Wasserman."
~ Margo Laurie, author of The Anarchist's Wife 

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: April 14, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

At the western edge of Cape Cod, in the grandest bedroom in the sprawling residence known as Gray Gables, Frances Cleveland couldn’t stifle the rising sound of her own screams. Between pains, she rested. The late morning breeze drifted across the lawn from Buzzards Bay, fluttering the lace curtain and cooling the sweat on her forehead.

Even at this moment, Frances felt grateful that Grover chose to spend summers away from Washington’s heat, away from the prying public. Here, in this secluded haven, she needn’t fear strangers hovering near the windows of the Executive Mansion for a glimpse of their president—or, more likely, of his wife and daughters. She could concentrate her fears on her pains and pray for the safe birth of her third child, in the same way she had for her first and again for her second. Frances expected from experience that her suffering would soon recede, replaced by the joy of motherhood. She did not know that before the day was over, her bodily misery would end, yielding not to joy but to overwhelming terror.

The previous February, after sensing a flutter beneath her gown while greeting a crowd of visitors at a reception, Frances guessed the baby would be her third girl. Practiced at keeping confidences, she never mentioned her prediction to her preoccupied husband. When she gave birth to another girl, the blathering journalists would have their say. They would try out their jokes about the president’s little harem. Most days, Frances ignored the journalists. Most days, she trusted Grover to love each of his babies.

The image of a trio of girls was far from Frances’s mind now, as she suffered in bed. She cried out, too loudly. Dr. Bryant reminded her that she’d survived labor pains before. “Don’t you dare say that again,” she said, in a shrill tone that surprised her.

At last, Frances heard the newborn’s cry, faint but lovely. Dr. Bryant chuckled while he clamped and cut the cord. “Mrs. Cleveland, should I bring the president upstairs to see his new daughter? He’s pacing on the front porch. Once he sees this one—she’s beautiful—he won’t regret it’s not a son.”

“Yes,” Frances said, with the strongest voice she could muster. A girl, as she’d guessed. For an instant, with the last of her contractions, she’d ignored her prediction and hoped for a boy. Now, she didn’t linger on that momentary weakness of character. She let a surge of pride swell over her, above the exhaustion. She’d done it. Again.

Frances turned to the local midwife hired to assist. “Tell the steward, his name is Sinclair, to get Ruth and Esther. I want my daughters to see their new sister.”

Frances raised herself a few inches, enough to see the midwife slip into the hall. The woman returned and gave Frances a nod. The girls would come shortly. Frances sank back and watched the midwife wipe down the infant and swaddle her. She did look beautiful. “Here,” Frances said, crooking her arm to make room for Marion, the name Grover chose that would serve for a girl or a boy. The same name as a town across Buzzards Bay, where many of their friends lived. Frances appreciated Grover’s decision to buy an estate on the outskirts of a different but nearby town, Bourne. The family could escape Washington’s heat and busybodies.

And escape the threats.

Hours earlier, Frances gave thanks for the breeze blowing through the open window, reminding her that Gray Gables was perfectly located on a point overlooking the Bay’s east side. But now she blocked the sound of wind and waves. straining to make sense of other sounds, to hear what Grover would say about a third daughter. The doctor scurried downstairs. The midwife remained stationed over the bed, tending to Frances and crooning softly to the baby. Frances ignored the woman, mindful only of the voices wafting in through the window. First, low tones as the doctor talked to Grover. They were friends. Dr. Bryant saved Grover’s life two summers ago, removing the cancer eating away at his palate. Now, Frances imagined the doctor patting her thickset husband on his shoulder and shaking his hand. She hoped Grover would offer the doctor a contented smile. Seconds later, Grover clomped upstairs. The doctor followed behind, with lighter steps.

“So happy, Frankie.” Her husband used one of her nicknames. After their wedding, she asked Grover to call her by her more dignified name, Frances. He still used Frankie or Frank in private moments. She let him—the nicknames added tenderness to his gruff voice. “The doctor tells me you’re fine. You managed without chloroform this time, too. And the baby’s healthy. Marion, right? Three girls. They will enjoy each other’s company.”

He said the right thing. She didn’t need to feel anxious about another girl. He was a good man, kind to her, whatever others thought. He wouldn’t hold the baby, rarely did. But he wiped his chubby hand on a cloth, then touched Marion’s forehead. He stood there for a few minutes, cherishing their third child. For him, it was a fourth, but no matter. His eyes shifted to gaze at her. He wouldn’t see the tall, slender belle he married nine years ago, the one the reporters called lovely. He’d see a tired, sweat-drenched woman who looked every day of her thirty years.

“Ruth and Esther?” Frances asked again, eyeing the midwife. “Did you send Sinclair for them?”

“Yes, ma’am. The steward went a minute ago.” The midwife spoke quietly, carefully. She’d feel nervous in the presence of the president.

Still almost flat in bed, Frances clutched Marion, admiring the infant. Perfect features. Ten fingers and ten toes. Another blessing from God.

A familiar sound at the door. Sinclair knocked softly. His usual pattern—soft, loud, soft—keeping to the household code. Another sound, when the midwife opened the door. Next, Frances would hear four little feet rushing toward the newest baby.

No feet. Only hushed words.

“Sinclair found Annie,” the midwife said. “She’s your older daughter’s nursemaid, right? He tells me she needs another minute to bring Ruth and to tell your younger daughter’s nursemaid to bring Esther.” The midwife stood far from Frances’s bed, speaking almost in a whisper.

Grover didn’t look concerned. His rough mustache skimmed Frances’s cheek as he kissed her lightly on her damp forehead. She was too tired to return the kiss. She heard him drop into the nearby rocking chair.

“Joseph,” he said, addressing the doctor, “you’re certain Frankie is fine? No complications?”

“Just fine, Grover. Ready for the next one before long.”

Four years earlier, when Ruth was born, Dr. Joseph Bryant told Frances how to manage her family. “Breastfeed for six months.” He looked straight at her, with no awkwardness. “You’ll not get in the family way, and the baby will stay healthy. After six months, well, you and Grover can proceed to another.” And so they had. Esther after Ruth. Marion after Esther. A daughter every two years.

Frances closed her eyes, relying on her ears. Dr. Bryant thanked the midwife for her assistance. The woman tidied up, gathering soiled sheets and opening a chest, hunting for fresh linens. The room went silent, except for the soft, repetitious squeak of the rocking chair. Grover leaned up, then back, up then back. Frances sensed herself drifting off.

Another soft knock, barely a sound, followed by a pause, and two more soft knocks. Not Sinclair. One of the nursemaids. Annie? The midwife opened the door. “Ma’am.” Annie’s voice came out as a croak. “I can’t find Ruth.”

***

Author Bio:

Marlie Parker Wasserman loves writing historical crime fiction. She has published three novels--First Daughter will be her fourth. After a career in publishing in New Jersey, she moved to Chapel Hill, NC with her husband. When she is not writing, she travels, reads, and sketches. One of her goals is to visit every national park in the U.S., and she is close to her goal.

Catch Up With Marlie Parker Wasserman:

www.marliewasserman.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @marliewasserman
Instagram - @marliepwasserman
Bluesky - @marliewasserman.bsky.social
Facebook

Tour Participants:

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Click here to view the Tour Schedule

A Novel Way to Celebrate FIRST DAUGHTER… Start Here

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Marlie Parker Wasserman. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Can't see the giveaway? Click Here!

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Cover Reveal of Burning For You by Kasie Haley

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 11 May 2026 04:00:00 +0000

Burning For You
Kasie Haley
Publication date: July 24th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Lainey Wells hasn’t returned home to Tennessee in ten years. When her Grandpa passes away, she’s the only one left to help take care of her Grandma and keep her safe. Returning to a town where everyone hates her and calls her a murderer is her worst nightmare, and she doesn’t plan to stay. Not unless someone from her past can convince her.

Casey Richards isn’t afraid of anything. He’s not afraid of fighting in wars overseas, and certainly not running into burning buildings. Firefighting is his biggest passion in life, except for one other thing. Lainey Wells, the girl he has loved since they were kids. Ten years have passed since they’ve seen each other and when she suddenly returns, it’s his chance to convince her to stay.

Happiness has not come easily for either of them. Will he ever be able to make her stop blaming herself for what happened in their past? Lainey knows that staying could be dangerous, but Casey is ready to go to war for her.

Will they get their second chance, or will they burn out?

Author Bio:

Hi! I'm Kasie. I'm 28 and from Saint Louis, Missouri. My home is full of lots of laughter with 5 kiddos, 2 dogs and 2 cats. Plus some animals with scales. I love writing to release stress and have fun! I hope you love my books!

Instagram / Amazon / Facebook

Pre-Order the Book: https://books2read.com/u/3kR7vO

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Book Blitz of Arranged Marriage To A K-Pop Star by Bianca Rowena. (#Contests)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 05 May 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Arranged Marriage to a K-Pop Idol
Bianca Rowena
Publication date: April 28th 2026
Genres: Dystopian, Romance, Young Adult

He who controls the media, controls the world.

In a world where a young woman only has two choices, marry by age 18 and procreate naturally, or be thrown into a fertility prison, AnAn finds herself in an arranged marriage to K-Pop Idol Taejung, who is running from the paparazzi and his government.

Can Taejung and AnAn stop the One World Nation’s plot to use K-pop concerts and fans, to win the world election, or will Taejung be pulled back into the K-pop world he left behind, and AnAn lose her first love?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

Taejung studied her silently from his corner of the room and AnAn’s face flushed. She looked away, but her eyes kept returning to him even as the Building Families Official continued to talk. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of a Hear4U music video.

“AnAn, let me be direct,” the Official said. “Your arrangement to Taylor here is a unique situation. Building Families is expanding its repopulation efforts, globally.” The lady gave her a forced smile.

AnAn’s reporter instincts told her this was far from the truth. Taejung didn’t look like he even wanted to be here, let alone volunteer to repopulate the West, with her.

Author Bio:

Bianca Rowena was born in Romania, Transylvania and has enjoyed writing from a young age. She now lives in Canada, which is the setting and inspiration for her novels. Bianca studied Cinema/Television/Stage/Radio at the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology.

Website / Facebook / Instagram

GIVEAWAY!

Arranged Marriage to a K-Pop Idol Blitz

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Book Blitz of Tell Them Goodbye by E.R. Sanchez. (Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Tell Them Goodbye
E. R. Sanchez
(Third Death Series, #1)
Publication date: December 17th 2025
Genres: Thriller, Young Adult

16-year-old Sino and his 17-year-old cousin, Martín, run away from their family’s ranch—El Petaco—after witnessing their cousin Adal murder their cousin Javier over Adal’s marijuana business.

Not wanting to be forced into Javier’s job, Sino and Martín plan to run, knowing that Adal will come after them and anyone they tell. Although running away will leave people confused, Sino and Martín agree that leaving will protect both them and their loved ones from Adal’s wrath.

The pair realize the journey ahead of them is going to be rough, so before leaving they hatch a plan that includes stealing two goats, making it to Arteaga, getting on as many buses as it takes, and paying a coyote to smuggle them across the U.S.-Mexico border.

Sino and Martín don’t know much about life in 1970s America due to their sheltered life on El Petaco, but they’ve heard of a potential better life waiting for them in America and assume it’s the only option for freedom. The harrowing path ahead of them has them constantly looking over their shoulders for Adal’s assassins, fighting off robbers who attempt to take what little possessions they have, and weaving their way through Mexico’s class prejudices, violence, and exploitation.

“Tell Them Goodbye” is an unflinching, gritty immigrant story based on true events. It’s more than just a tale about two cousins trying to get to the United States; it’s an offering to all immigrants who only make it as spirits and an offering for humanity’s unstoppable determination to risk everything to accomplish any goal or dream.

Goodreads / Amazon

Author Bio:

E. R. Sanchez is the author of Fried Potato Press’s first full-length novel, Tell Them Goodbye. He also has poems and stories published online and in print.

Goodreads / Facebook / X / Amazon

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Tell Them Goodbye Blitz

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Book Blitz of Shopping for a Highlander's Baby by Julia Kent. (#contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Mon, 27 Apr 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Shopping for a Highlander’s Baby
Julia Kent
(Shopping for a Highlander, #4)
Publication date: March 30th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

The best early strike o ’ma life wasna on the pitch. It was in bed with Amy on our honeymoon.

Dinna ken how we turned our elopement, honeymoon, and conception into a hat trick, but there ye go.

One minute we’re swimming in champagne and red satin sheets, the next we’re staring at a due date that lands right when I’m supposed ta start my big sportscasting gig in London.

Amy’s glowing. She’s also got that fire in her — the kind that makes her tell my billionaire uncle exactly where ta shove his branding campaign, quit her job at eight months pregnant, and rearrange our entire life plan on a Tuesday.

The grandmums are suspiciously quiet, which is more terrifying than when they’re at each other’s throats.

Then it happens. The wee one decides ta make an entrance four weeks early — while I’m three thousand miles away, live on air, with a producer who willna let me leave.

So I do what any McCormick would do.

I coach ma wife through labor in one ear, commentate the match in the other, and let a billion people watch me choose my family over my career on live television.

It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s pure chaos.

It’s the match of our lives.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

Amy

Ceramic tile is hard and very cold.

I find that out when my toes turn into icicles as I stand holding a plastic wand that says PREGNANT, like the world’s bossiest fortune cookie.

PREGNANT

The condo holds the aroma of last night’s roasted garlic pizza, which felt like a good option at nine p.m. Now? Not so much. A breath of ocean air wafts in through the cracked-open window.

Boston hums outside.

Inside, I am a statue with messy sex hair and a pee stick screaming my future and… oh, my God.

The word grandmonsters rings through my head like Quasimodo clanging the Notre Dame cathedral bell. Our mothers ruined our wedding, crashed our elopement, and now here we stand, five weeks later, married and—

PREGNANT

I breathe in, out, forgetting the rhythm as my distracted brain tries to fill a whiteboard. An Airtable. Every Kanban board. All the Excel spreadsheets, every last one of them.

Hamish wraps around me from behind, lifting me before my feet realize it. He is warm and tall and smells like soap and sleep, and his forearms around my ribcage are so solid, so sure of where they belong, that my body gives up its panic and leans back into him before my brain can file an objection.

Beware the boundless optimism of a man who once insisted a vibrating bed should be on our wedding gift registry.

And that guests should throw quarters instead of rice.

“I canna believe it,” he says into my ear, voice hushed. “We’re havin ’a wee bairn.”

“Hi,” I say to my husband of five weeks, who hit the bullseye with the first married shot, dammit. “Yes. Apparently.”

Years ago, back when I hated him, I called Hamish “sex on a stick.”

Now I’m holding the sex stick, all right. I just never thought it would be white plastic and determine my fate.

Hamish lets go, walks away, and comes back into the bathroom carrying a chilled bottle of Champagne. It’s the bottle we brought back from our honeymoon in Love You, Maine, from the heart-shaped-everything suite. He holds it up, eyes shining.

“Breakfast o ’champions?”

“No, love.” I put my hand on his. “I can’t drink that now.”

A microsecond of confusion crosses his face, then he executes a pivot that would impress his old coach.

“Aye. Well then, coffee it is.” His auburn brows drop. “Unless ye canna have coffee?”

“I will always have coffee.”

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2 million books, with 4 New York Times bestsellers and more than 21 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French, German, and Italian, with more titles releasing in the future.

From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).

She lives in New England with her husband and three children where she is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls.

She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, on Facebook at @jkentauthor, and on Instagram @jkentauthor. Visit her at http://jkentauthor.com

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Newsletter / Bookbub / Amazon

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Shopping for a Highlander’s Baby Blitz

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Book Blitz of A Chatter Of Bones & Baby's Breath by Suzanne Phillips. (#Contests.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Thu, 23 Apr 2026 04:30:00 +0000

A Chatter of Bones & Baby’s Breath
Suzanne Phillips
Publication date: April 21st 2026
Genres: Young Adult

From acclaimed author Suzanne Phillips comes this compelling novella collection–gritty coming-of-age stories in narrative and verse that Kirkus Reviews calls “haunting and heartbreaking. . .an unflinching look at surviving trauma.”

A CHATTER OF BONES
Kaitlyn has come to rely on Olivia, the woman who rescued her from human trafficking, but is learning to trust her instincts and lean into her hard-earned strength. All of this will be challenged when a monsoon bears down on their remote spread, a mountain lion, flushed out of the surrounding hills by the weather, attacks, and human visitors push Kaitlyn to face her deepest fears.

BABY’S BREATH
Teen poet bares the geography of her heart and the “no care” foster care system as she mourns the mother she lost, releases dreams of reunification, and accepts that the only life she can live is the one in front of her.

Recommended for readers age 16+

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT (Baby’s Breath):

TRAFFICK
The world is not safe for girls
Broken
Beaten
Forgotten
Sweetened
The world is not safe for girls
Not in twos
Or with mace
Not screaming for help
Or stony-faced
The world is not safe for girls
With pretty hair
Or pocked skin
With muffin top
Or perfect teeth
The world is not safe for girls
Not in your home or mine
Not in school
Or after
Not with two parents
Or none
There’s someone
Always waiting.
Stroked
Or snatched
Held by the hand
A picked flower
Sold
Bartered
Rented by the hour
Always someone waiting
In the shadows
Or under street lights
In the school cafeteria
At the family BBQ
A friend’s father
Favorite uncle
Colleague
Cop
Neighbor
Father
To prove
The world is not safe for girls.

Author Bio:

Suzanne Phillips is the author of YA fiction, the Nicole Cobain mystery series (writing as Emery Hayes), and upmarket fiction. For a peek into the writer's life and updates on book releases & events check out her website.

Website / Instagram

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A Chatter of Bones & Baby’s Breath Blitz

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Book Blitz of Sins Of The Fire- Purgatorio by Phoenix Ward.(#Contests)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 04:30:00 +0000

Sins of the Fire: Purgatorio
Phoenix Ward
(Sins of the Fire, #2)
Publication date: December 18th 2025
Genres: Fantasy, New Adult, Young Adult

The Church of New Haven extends its reach to those in need, however there are some lost souls that require more direct guidance, as their sins must be met with strong redirection. Thus, Jonah was created. Originally a man named M█████ ████, he contains over two-hundred thousand sinners. Until they reconcile with their offense to God, they are to fast and pray for their salvation for as long as it takes them to realize their folly, and call upon us.

The boy will be saved from the Dragon, even if he must waste away to understand their danger.

Kickstarter / Amazon

Sequel to:

Check out the Kickstarter here!!

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EXCERPT:

This morning was a reminder that not only was sleep important, but so was waking up before 10am.

Between the heads of bed hair, scruffy clothes and flip-flops, there were black suits, floral dresses and sweet smelling perfume clouding the entrance of the store. Conversations were held in front of the doorway, carts were being pushed around like they were going out of style, and somehow that wasn’t the thing that made us second guess our trip to getting our travel items here. No, that all paled in comparison to the white van-bus with the words “Destiny Baptist Church”, written in Times New Roman on the side.

It wasn’t the church we had a problem with— it was the fact that it was Destiny, a local mega church that made their way through the doors. The same Destiny that would play on my grandmother’s radio, from preaching almost twelve hours of gospel to choirs capable of going seven octaves without any pause for breath. For whatever reason, they were here. Maybe it was some food-based event, or some donation cause, or maybe someone felt the ‘Holy Spirit’ invade them to help out a few families with groceries— either way, it was crowded. Worse yet, the congregants brought their kids too. One wrong turn with a cart and we’d be anointed with oil and made to play the burning bush. Imani and I both shared wary gazed with one another as the chatting church folk mingled with folks that just wanted to get their groceries.

I was the first one to take the initiative, but Imani was quick to hold me back from going too far.

“Hang on, no plan?” She asked, “We’re just going to go in?”

I shrugged, scooting aside as a family of three slipped past us. “Yeah. We just gotta make it through the doors. We’ll probably just grab baskets and split. When we’re done, we’ll meet right by the self-checkout, next to the gift cards.”

Her eyebrows looked like they’d fly away. She released her gentle hold of my arm. “I guess I shoulda known you’d know how to handle yourself, considering the stuff you dealt with.”

“Is it weird to admit that the cult shenanigans actually wilder compared to this?”

Imani sped ahead of me, playfully pushing me out of the way. “Just pray you don’t get lost in here!”

“Ah, pray! Good one.”

The doors opened, our opportunity for a clear entry inside revealed itself. With clergy folk standing by the door, we said our ‘Good mornings’ and kept it moving. Basket procured, we both split up and went our separate ways. I immediately made a beeline to the deli. Three pre-packaged sandwiches were perfect carry-on for the long trip. From there, I shot for the snacks aisle. Chips, protein bars, and those salty peanut butter cracker packages were all loaded up in the basket with haste. I said my ‘hello’s, and my ‘excuse me’s to any passerby, some people greet me, others regard me with a nod.

I wanted to be away from the churchgoers. They didn’t take up the store, but they were too permeated— too mixed in.

Too indistinguishable.

I wanted to pretend that everything was back to normal. That after all of the conflict, the fears, the crying, the fighting, things were safe again. Two months of nothing should have been enough to convince me, but I knew better. Every aisle I walked down, there was a body dressed in black or white—formal clothing or just plain clothes. Without touching Mysherra, I couldn’t tell which was a Havenite and which wasn’t. Even outside of the store, regular people, clerks, judges, beggars, anyone could be a Remnant out to get me, or one to watch me.

I put my hand in my pocket and stood in front of the line of power-drinks. My fingers grazed over the surface of the pen.

The hairs on my neck stood up. Goosebumps bristled along my arms. Piercing spheres of heat sandwiched both sides of my sides.

I didn’t dare turn my head—Peripherals attuned to the presence of two white-robed Remnants on opposite sides of the aisle.

“Kane.”

“I know.”

Slowly, I inched my arm out of my pocket, pen wedged between my fingers. They wouldn’t be able to fight me, not with eyes watching them from the ceiling. They didn’t want their secret to be discovered just as I didn’t.

“Do not acknowledge their presence,” Mysherra spoke to me, “Walk with me down the aisle.”

My legs walked me sideways. I didn’t want my back turned to either one of these things. The power drinks transitioned to the flavored powders. Flavored powders to sparkling sodas. Neither one of the beings made a move.

“Once you get close, fire me.”

Senses were screaming at me to run or fight the closer I got to the remnant. My heart was thudding against my ribs.

“Just a little closer.”

Light conjured at the tip of the pen. The burning spread along my entire right side.

“Okay, the fires should be quiet enough to—”

“Excuse me.”

Someone bumped against my back, cutting off my focus. “Ah, sorry about th—”

All I did was turn my head. I had seconds, milliseconds, microseconds to process the burgeoning man unlatching his jaw in front of me. Ropes of saliva separated a hollow light at the back of his throat. Flesh, wet, and acrid already surrounded me, sounds of the outside muffled by the remnant’s mouth closing behind me. I must have fired four times— twice to the ribcage roof of the mouth and twice towards the light. Footing vanished, the dark closed in, and the door to the outside slammed shut behind stone teeth.

And I fell.

Author Bio:

Phoenix Ward is an indie black writer, and educator from Philadelphia. He has worked in the field of education for over five years, teaching all grades Mathematics and English. When he’s not writing, he is composing music using Logic Pro X, or tutoring children on subjects they struggle in. Currently, he lives in Philadelphia with his dog and cat.

An avid world-builder, Phoenix has created many stories from youth to adulthood, but none have captivated him as much as his latest work Sins of the Fire, which combines his passion for storytelling with his deep understanding of human nature. He draws inspiration from the vibrant city life of Philadelphia and his own experiences as an educator, infusing his narratives with authenticity and depth.

In addition to his work as a writer and educator, Phoenix is committed to supporting young creatives in their journeys. He actively encourages students and adults alike to seek a way to create their own stories. Everyone has a message to share, and doing so in story is the best way to do so.

Website / Instagram

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Sins of the Fire: Purgatorio Blitz

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Interview of Dr. Omomaro Okekaro author of Home Is Where The Story Begins.(#Contests.)

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen) — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 04:45:00 +0000

Book Title:  HOME IS WHERE OUR STORY BEGINS by Dr. Omomaro Okekaro, PhD
Category: Adult Fiction (18+), 436 pages
Genre:  Romance Fiction
Publisher:  WILLIAMS AND KING PUBLISHERS
Release date:   Nov 2025
Tour dates: Apr 20 to May 8, 2026
Content Rating:  PG + M. NO LANGUAGE, NO SEX SCENES. BUT THEME IS MATURE INVOLVING SECRET FAMILY AND ROMANTIC AFFAIR

Book Description:

When Eliza Thornton returns to the quiet English countryside after her mother’s death, she finds the Old Manor—her childhood home—standing as both a relic of her past and a mirror to her own fractured heart. What begins as a simple visit to settle her mother’s affairs turns into a haunting journey of rediscovery, as buried letters and unspoken truths draw her into the labyrinth of her family’s untold story.

Through the voices of memory and regret, Home Is Where Our StoryBegins explores the delicate threads that bind mothers and daughters, love and loss, silence and forgiveness.
As Eliza unravels the secrets her mother kept, she comes face-to-face with the echoes of generations—each one yearning to be understood, to be seen, to be free.

In the end, the Old Manor becomes more than a house; it becomes a place of reckoning, healing, and rebirth—a reminder that home isn’t just where we come from, but where we finally make peace with who we are.

INTERVIEW

1. QUESTION: The Old Manor is described as both a relic of the past and a mirror to Eliza’s fractured heart. How did you approach writing the house as a living, emotional character rather than just a setting?

ANSWER: I approached the Old Manor not as a backdrop, but as an extension of Eliza’s internal world almost as if the house itself had memory, breath, and a quiet consciousness shaped by everything it had witnessed.

From the beginning, I was less interested in describing the house in purely physical terms and more concerned with how it felt to inhabit it. Every creaking floorboard, every dim corridor, every room left untouched was written to reflect something unresolved within Eliza. The Manor became a container for what had been avoided—grief, silence, and unspoken history.

In crafting it as a living, emotional presence, I leaned into the idea that spaces absorb the lives lived within them. The Old Manor had held Eliza’s childhood, her mother’s longing, and years of absence. So when Eliza returns, she is not simply entering a building; she is re-entering a relationship. The house responds to her—not literally, but emotionally—through atmosphere, tension, and familiarity that feels almost intrusive.

I also used contrast deliberately. Certain parts of the house remain frozen in time, while others show decay or neglect. That duality mirrors Eliza’s own state—caught between who she was and who she has become. The Manor, in that sense, becomes a reflection of fragmentation, but also a space where reintegration is possible.

Importantly, I allowed the house to reveal itself gradually. Just as Eliza cannot confront everything at once, the Manor does not give up its story all at once. Rooms, objects, and hidden details act almost like emotional thresholds—each one inviting her deeper into truth.

Ultimately, writing the Old Manor as a character was about treating space as something relational. It holds, it remembers, it resists, and, in time, it allows healing. The house does not simply exist around Eliza—it participates in her journey back to herself.

2. QUESTION: The novel explores the delicate threads between mothers and daughters, love and loss. What inspired you to tell this story through buried letters and unspoken truths rather than direct confrontation?

ANSWER: I chose buried letters and unspoken truths because the relationship between mother and daughter, particularly one shaped by distance, regret, or emotional restraint, is rarely lived out in direct confrontation. More often, it exists in what is withheld—in what could not be said at the time it mattered most.

In this story, the letters became a way of restoring voice where silence once dominated. They allow the mother to speak from a place she could not access while she was alive—free from fear, pride, or the limitations of the moment. In many ways, the letters are not just communication; they are confession, memory, and longing preserved in time.

Direct confrontation often demands readiness from both sides. But in fractured relationships, that readiness is uneven or never arrives. By using letters, I was able to create a space where truth unfolds gently, without resistance, and where Eliza can receive it at her own pace. This felt more authentic to the emotional reality of unresolved relationships, where understanding often comes too late for dialogue but not too late for meaning.

There is also something intimate about discovery. When Eliza reads these letters, she is not being told what to feel; she is uncovering it. Each revelation becomes personal, almost sacred, because it is earned through reflection rather than forced through confrontation.

On a deeper level, I was interested in how love can exist even when it is not expressed well. The unspoken truths in the novel reflect the limitations people carry—their fears, their generational conditioning, their inability to articulate emotion. The letters then become a bridge across that limitation, allowing love to be seen in retrospect, even if it was not fully felt in real time.

Ultimately, this approach allowed the story to honour both absence and presence at once. The mother is gone, yet her voice remains. The relationship is broken, yet still capable of repair—just in a different form.

3. QUESTION: Eliza unravels secrets her mother kept across generations. How did you balance the weight of those secrets with the novel’s ultimately hopeful message about forgiveness and peace?

ANSWER: I treated the secrets not as plot devices to shock, but as emotional inheritances—things carried, often unconsciously, from one generation to the next. That framing changed the balance. The weight was not just in what was hidden, but in why it was hidden: fear, protection, shame, and, at times, a misguided form of love.

To keep that weight from overwhelming the narrative, I was careful to reveal the secrets with context. Each discovery Eliza makes is accompanied by a deeper understanding of her mother’s humanity. The goal was not to excuse what was done or left undone, but to make it legible. Once something is understood, it becomes less of a burden and more of a truth that can be held without breaking the person carrying it.

Pacing was also important. I did not allow all the revelations to arrive at once. Instead, they unfold in layers, giving Eliza—and the reader—time to absorb, resist, question, and gradually reinterpret what those truths mean. That space is where forgiveness begins to take shape, not as a single moment, but as a process.

I also resisted portraying forgiveness as immediate or sentimental. Eliza’s journey includes anger, confusion, and even a sense of betrayal. Those responses are necessary because they honor the reality of what was lost. Forgiveness, in this sense, is not about forgetting or minimizing the past; it is about releasing the hold it has on the present.

The hopeful tone emerges from this shift. As Eliza begins to see her mother not only as a source of pain but as a person shaped by her own limitations and history, something changes. The secrets lose their power to isolate and instead become points of connection—evidence of a shared, imperfect humanity.

Ultimately, I wanted the novel to suggest that peace does not come from uncovering a perfect truth, but from learning how to live with an honest one. Forgiveness, then, becomes less about reconciliation with the past and more about reclaiming the freedom to move forward without carrying its full weight.

4. QUESTION: The summary mentions ‘voices of memory and regret.’ How did you weave together past and present timelines, and what challenges came with writing from multiple generational perspectives?

ANSWER: I approached structure as something fluid rather than strictly linear. The story moves between past and present in the same way memory works—triggered, layered, and often unexpected. A room, an object, or even a silence in the present becomes an entry point into the past. This allowed the timelines to feel organically connected rather than mechanically arranged.

The “voices of memory and regret” were shaped as distinct emotional registers. Eliza’s voice in the present carries immediacy—questions, resistance, and the need to understand. The mother’s voice, often expressed through letters or remembered fragments, carries reflection—what is seen more clearly in hindsight, what was felt but not expressed. The generational layer beneath them holds something quieter, almost embedded—a sense of inherited silence, patterns that were never named but deeply felt.

Weaving these voices together required careful modulation. I had to ensure that each voice retained its own texture without becoming repetitive or confusing. One challenge was avoiding over-explanation. When writing across generations, there is a temptation to clarify everything, but doing so can flatten the emotional depth. Instead, I allowed certain gaps to remain—spaces where the reader, like Eliza, must interpret and connect meaning.

Another challenge was maintaining continuity of emotional truth across time. Even though the characters exist in different periods, their experiences needed to feel connected in a way that was believable. This meant tracing not just events, but emotional patterns—how silence, longing, or restraint echoes from one generation to the next.

Pacing was also critical. Moving between timelines can disrupt momentum if not handled carefully. I used transitions that were anchored in feeling rather than chronology, so the reader moves because something resonates, not just because time has shifted.

Ultimately, the structure reflects the central idea of the novel: that the past is not separate from the present. It lives within it, shaping perception, relationships, and identity. The voices of memory and regret are not interruptions to Eliza’s story—they are part of its foundation.

5. QUESTION: Did any elements of Eliza’s journey—returning to a childhood home after loss—come from your own life or observations? How much of the story is autobiographical?

ANSWER: Eliza’s journey is not autobiographical in a literal sense, but it is rooted in lived observation and emotional truth. The idea of returning to a childhood home after loss is something many people encounter at some point—whether physically or psychologically. What interested me was less the event itself and more the internal experience it creates: the confrontation between who we were, who we became, and what we left unresolved.

Much of the emotional landscape in the novel draws from that universal moment of reckoning. I have observed, both personally and through others, how spaces tied to our early lives carry a particular weight. They hold memory in a way that is not always conscious, and when we return, we are often met with versions of ourselves we thought we had outgrown. That tension—between distance and familiarity—became central to Eliza’s experience.

The mother-daughter dynamic, the presence of unspoken truths, and the gradual uncovering of family history are also informed by broader human patterns rather than specific personal events. In many families, there are stories that are partially told, emotions that are not fully expressed, and histories that are carried quietly across generations. I was interested in exploring how those silences shape identity and relationships over time.

Where the story becomes personal is in its emotional authenticity. While the characters and events are fictional, the feelings—grief, longing, confusion, the desire for understanding—are drawn from real human experience. That is where I allowed myself to be most honest.

So rather than being autobiographical, the novel is reflective. It gathers fragments of observation, emotional insight, and shared human experience, and shapes them into a narrative that feels true, even if it is not directly lived.

6. QUESTION: You write that each generation yearns ‘to be understood, to be seen, to be free.’ How does the Old Manor become a place of reckoning and rebirth for Eliza, not just a repository of pain?

ANSWER: The Old Manor begins as a repository of pain because it holds everything that was left unresolved—memories, absences, and emotional truths that were never fully confronted. But I was intentional in not allowing it to remain fixed in that role. For Eliza, the house becomes a place of reckoning precisely because it does not let her remain distant from those truths. It draws her into them, slowly but persistently.

Reckoning, in this sense, is not a single moment of confrontation but a series of encounters. Each room, each object, each fragment of her mother’s voice asks something of her: to look again, to feel more honestly, to question what she believed to be final. The Manor becomes a space where denial is no longer sustainable. That is where the shift begins.

What transforms the house from a site of pain into a place of rebirth is Eliza’s changing relationship to what it holds. At first, she experiences the house as something oppressive—heavy with memory, almost resistant to her presence. But as she begins to understand the context behind those memories, especially through the letters and the unfolding family history, the same space starts to open. What once felt like accusation begins to feel like invitation.

I also approached rebirth through the idea of redefinition. The Manor does not change in a physical sense as much as it changes in meaning. Eliza begins to see it not only as the place where things went wrong, but as the place where truth can finally be acknowledged. In doing so, she reclaims both the space and her place within it.

Importantly, freedom in the novel is not about escape from the past, but about a new way of relating to it. The Manor becomes the environment where Eliza moves from inheritance to choice—where she can decide what she carries forward and what she releases.

By the end, the house is no longer just a container of history. It becomes a witness to transformation. It holds pain, but it also holds understanding. And in that balance, it allows Eliza not only to remember, but to begin again.

7. QUESTION: The final line says home is ‘where we finally make peace with who we are.’ What do you hope readers grappling with their own family secrets or unresolved grief will take away from this book?

ANSWER: I would want readers to come away with a quieter, more grounded understanding of themselves—not necessarily with all the answers, but with a greater capacity to hold their own story without turning away from it.

For those grappling with family secrets or unresolved grief, the book is not offering a neat resolution. Instead, it suggests that understanding is often a gradual process. What we inherit—silence, pain, unanswered questions—does not have to define us in a fixed way. It can be examined, reinterpreted, and, over time, integrated into a fuller sense of self.

One of the central ideas I hoped to convey is that not everything will be explained, and not every wound will be fully repaired. But there is still the possibility of peace. That peace comes from seeing more clearly recognizing the

humanity in those who came before us, including their limitations, and allowing that awareness to soften the way we carry our own experiences.

I also wanted readers to feel that they are not alone in the complexity of their family history. Many people live with partial stories, with things that were never said or understood. The novel creates space for that reality without forcing it into a simplified narrative of blame or closure.

Ultimately, “home” in the book is less about a physical place and more about an internal state. It is the point at which a person can say: this is my story, with all its contradictions, and I can live with it without being defined by its pain. If readers can move even slightly toward that kind of acceptance—where they no longer feel the need to escape their past but can stand within it with clarity

Buy the Book
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add to Goodreads

Meet the Author:

Omomaro Okekaro, PhD, is a distinguished writer, scholar, and storyteller exploring the depths of human nature, justice, and hidden truths. With a background in mental health counseling and spirituality, he crafts narratives that blend mystery, suspense, and introspection, offering readers a profound journey through the human experience.

Born in Igbuku, Midwestern Nigeria, Dr. Okekaro’s love for literature began early, nurtured by a family that valued education. Beyond writing, he is a mental health therapist and spiritual counselor dedicated to faith, resilience, and self-discovery themes.

His works include A Spirituality of Awareness, Lord, I Am in Trouble, The Last Journey, The Shadows in My Rain, Monroe’s Dark Business, The Story of Me, Home Is Where Our StoryBegins, and several unpublished manuscripts. When not writing, he enjoys family time and online Scrabble.

connect with the author: website ~ instagram ~ facebook ~ goodreads

Enter the Giveaway:

Books R Us

Book Blitz of Undying by Christy Healy. (#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

Book Blitz of Boys of Richland- Gabriel by Daniela Romero. (#Contests- win a hardcover special edition set of the trilogy.)

Book Blitz of Mist in the Willows by Lucy Linne. (#Contests- $20 Amazon gift card + a signed copy of Mist In The Willows -2 winners)

Book Blitz of Dune Queen by Amina Adamou. (# Contests- win an ebook copy of Dune Queen)

Book Blitz of Deceptive Inheritance (Remnants of the Lost ,#1) by Jennifer Anne Davis. (#Contests- Win a $25 Barnes & Noble gift card.)

Book Blitz of A Jewel of a Crime by Valerie Taylor. (#Contests- Win an Amazon gift card)

Book Blitz of How To Love A Prince by Hayden Stone. (#Contests- Enter to win an Ecopy of the book.)

Book Blitz of Angel's Salvation by Ines Gray(#Contests)

Showcase of The Pawn by John David.(#Contests-Win An Amazon Gift Card-2 Winners.)

May 11 - June 5, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE LEMASTER FILES

If you enjoy journalist-sleuth mysteries like The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, you'll be hooked on The Lemaster Files!

Chapter One

Jacksonville, Florida, USAThursday, 7 p.m. EST

Tour Participants:

Play the Game… If You Dare

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for John David. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Cover Reveal of You Had Me At Meow by Gracie James (#contests- win an amazon gift card.)

Book Blitz of Love at the Fiesta- A Kwentitas Romance Anthology. (#Contests- Win An Ebook of the Anthology- 11 winners.)

Book Blitz of The Flames of Soulflare by La Kayshal. (#Contests- Enter to win Paperback copy of The Flames of Soulflare (USA, UK, Canada or Australia only) -3x ebook copies of The Flames of Soulflare (INT))

Book Blitz of A Hundred Black Sunrises by Tamela Miles.(#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.))

Virtual Blog Tour of Her Silence by S.T. Ashman. (#Contests- Enter to win A Gift Card.)

Review of The Vivaldi Cipher by Gary McAvoy. (#Contests- Enter to win an Amazon gift card-2 winners.)

May 4 - 29, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Prologue

Vatican City, Rome – February 1740

Venice, Italy—Present Day

Chapter 1

Present Day

Chapter 2

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Gary McAvoy. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Spotlight of A Change In Plans by Mike Martin a Cozy Mystery with a couple of Dead Bodies.

Book Blitz of Mr. Emotionally Un Stable by Alina Jacobs. (#Contests-wi a signed copy of Mr. Emotionally Unstable.)

Spotlight of The First Daughter by Marlie Parker Wasserman.(#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

Tour Participants:

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Marlie Parker Wasserman. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Cover Reveal of Burning For You by Kasie Haley

Book Blitz of Arranged Marriage To A K-Pop Star by Bianca Rowena. (#Contests)

Book Blitz of Tell Them Goodbye by E.R. Sanchez. (Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

Book Blitz of Shopping for a Highlander's Baby by Julia Kent. (#contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card.)

Book Blitz of A Chatter Of Bones & Baby's Breath by Suzanne Phillips. (#Contests.)

Book Blitz of Sins Of The Fire- Purgatorio by Phoenix Ward.(#Contests)

Interview of Dr. Omomaro Okekaro author of Home Is Where The Story Begins.(#Contests.)

Jacksonville, Florida, USA
Thursday, 7 p.m. EST