Oct 11

Book Blitz: Trust is Fraught by Emily Carrington (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Trust is Fraught

Author: Emily Carrington

Cover Art: Angela Knight

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

Themes: Gay, Medical Romance, Multicultural & Interracial, Werewolves & Wolf Shifters

Series: Medically Necessary (#2)

Multiverse: Searchlight Academy (#12)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 99

Synopsis

From insisting on a bed for their first time to protecting Amir from everything, Oliver is stepping all over Amir’s last nerve. It’s almost too bad the submissive wolf wants dominant Oliver in the worst way.

Amir’s frustration with Oliver doesn’t cancel out his attraction to the other wolf. As they fall deeper into the dangers of the psychic world in an effort to rescue their leader, their love may be the only thing keeping them sane.

As the leader of the werewolves sinks further into insanity, Amir and Oliver are pushed to their limits to find out what’s causing his decline. Once they discover the truth, it’s another struggle, this one against prejudice and time, to rescue the alpha above all alphas.

Excerpt

Trust Is Fraught (Medically Necessary 2)
Emily Carrington
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Emily Carrington

It was full dark when Oliver jerked awake. He sat up, smelling his own sweat and the aftermath of sex.

He flashed back to the most traumatic time he’d woken to the stench of spent jizz. Geoffrey, the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been standing over him, cum dripping from his rapidly shrinking cock.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed, fully expecting to find himself surrounded by the enemy. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he picked out the shadowy form of a lampshade. He reached out, almost knocking the lamp over in his need to shed light on the situation. When the bulb glowed, he took a quick look around the room, feeling the urge to ensure he was alone and safe. He didn’t quite dare to rise to his feet because his legs felt like they’d turned to water.

He missed Kenneth Jeremiah in the worst way all of a sudden, and he was unable to hide from the truth, that he missed his lover not for Kenneth Jeremiah’s own sake but because his lover had kept the nightmares at bay. Ever since being attacked, which had been two months before Kenneth Jeremiah died, the nightmares had been threatening. But he hadn’t actually dreamed of what happened until after his beloved was dead. Kenneth Jeremiah had possessed a rare empathic gift, one that allowed him to soothe others’ minds.

Sort of like Amir, he thought, but his terror kept him dwelling on the past.

He was alone in the downstairs bedroom of the house he rented in Washington, D.C.’s Northwest quarter. Why the hell did it smell of sex? And why didn’t his ass hurt?

Oliver’s gorge rose. He swallowed against the need to throw up. Gradually, his stomach settled and new information came to his nose. Yes, it was his own jizz he smelled on the air, but it was mixed with another male’s. The aroma didn’t spark a flashback but seemed to wrap around him, comforting him.

Amir’s scent surrounded him.

He’d had sex, all right, except it had really been making love. There was no fear or rage clouding the healthy leavings of two werewolves who cared for each other. They hadn’t gone all the way. Oliver had refused to claim Amir’s virgin body while they were so spun up from the events of the last few days and when Oliver himself had been so desperate for sexual contact that he hadn’t been sure he could be as gentle as was needed. They’d had oral sex, and now that his head was clearing, he realized he could taste Amir’s salty spend on his tongue. He licked his lips, found a little more of the heavenly liquid at one corner, and closed his eyes to savor it.

His cock stirred, although only a little as he fully realized he was alone in the bedroom. Where had Amir gone? Had he woken as Oliver had, frightened, and escaped into the house at large, or to the world beyond these walls? What if Oliver’s nightmare had been prophetic rather than a misplaced response to his joy?

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He flopped back onto the bed. Cursing softly, he performed a quick self-analysis, looking for sore spots or other indicators he’d been drugged. He detected nothing. Likewise, he felt no alien presence in his mind. His psychic shields were up and strong.

Still, his legs trembled. Clutching his knees, he tried to get a handle on his fear.

It hadn’t been all that long since he’d dreamed of the gang rape Geoffrey Huntington had led. Maybe only three weeks. Still, he was shocked every time it recurred. Hadn’t going through it once been enough? Apparently not for his traumatized body. Oliver could have bested three out of the four werewolves who raped him during that long five hours, but he’d surrendered to their brutality to save Kenneth Jeremiah. When the attack had begun, he’d expected to find Travers and Cobb involved because they were closer to him in rank, both being lower gammas. But the three besides Geoffrey, who was the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been Carl, Matthias, and Scott, all very low-ranked wolves, although not quite submissive. He’d always thought their ranks were why they’d participated. Geoffrey might have forced them.

Thinking about that night, all alone in the midst of raving beasts, wasn’t going to steady his legs. He needed to get himself under control so he could go looking for Amir and ensure his new lover was safe.

He forced himself to lie down on the bed. He inhaled Amir’s scent rising from his pillow, an aroma made of sweat and excitement and just a touch of disinfectant because Amir was a physician. Oliver breathed in and out, counting the seconds for each inhale and exhale. He added three seconds of holding his breath between these two acts and slowly his heartbeat stopped racing out of control. Amir’s joy and release held a comfort that Oliver hadn’t found since before the gang rape.

He sat up before that thought could take hold. He focused on the bedroom door, which was ajar. He did another quick sweep of the room, this time with nose fully engaged. He didn’t detect any blood or stench of fear. Amir must have left the room of his own volition.

With this idea in his head, Oliver was finally able to rise. He tugged on the pants he’d been wearing and started for the hallway. Following Amir’s scent, he went into the bathroom across the way, where Amir had apparently washed up because the tang of citrus soap hung in the air. Had he come out here naked?

Needing to solve that mystery because Amir walking anywhere potentially public without his clothes didn’t seem like the doctor of magical creatures at all. Back in the bedroom, however, Oliver saw all of Amir’s articles of clothing were still there.

Concern reared its ugly head again and he trotted from the room. He stopped by the front door, but Amir hadn’t come this way. He trailed the scent of soap to the stairs, and that was where it changed. The addition of fur’s rich aroma told Oliver Amir had slipped from human guise to lupine seeming before he went up the staircase to the second floor.

His night vision had fully adjusted to the dimness, and he climbed the stairs silently, keeping his ears open for Amir or their mutual patient.

Maybe that was it, he thought as he put his foot on the third step. Their mutual patient, Tilthos Charles, the alpha above all alphas in the Americas and Canada, was ill. Amir had managed to rule out any poisons or physical cause for Tilthos Charles’s growing madness, leaving it to Oliver to figure out the psychic cause. Oliver hadn’t yet solved the mystery beyond the realization Tilthos Charles was being forced to share his mind with five or six other werewolves who meant him harm.

Maybe Tilthos Charles was the reason Amir had left the bedroom and not because he’d endured a terrible dream. Oliver purposely made a little noise on the stairs to warn those up on the second floor that he was coming. He couldn’t quite make himself call out or even whisper. His throat had tightened, now with nervousness. What had he been thinking, making love to Amir when they had a patient to look after?

He reached the landing between the first and second floors and paused. Above him, out of sight because of the construction of the house, he heard a very quiet growl.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

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Oct 08

New Release Blitz: Into the Lion’s Den by John Patrick (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Into the Lion’s Den

Author: John Patrick

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/08/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 94800

Genre: Contemporary, coming out, missionaries, religion, religious extremism, civil discord, women’s rights, road trip

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Description

In the near future, political and cultural divisions have pushed America to the brink of civil war over States’ rights.

Daniel Ridley is a newly ordained missionary, raised in the heart of the separatist South and in ignorance of the broader world. He is sent to Boston as a missionary for the Christian Nationalist Evangelicals to preach the Word of God and to advocate for a government based on religious scripture. He’s not sure why God chose to burden him with same-sex attraction, but he’s confident his faith will give him the strength to resist that temptation. But he’s not prepared for the hostility he faces up North, and his secret mission—to find an elusive killer and bring him to justice—only complicates his task.

Jaxtyn Keller is a young gay man and perpetual college student who leads a Buddhist worship group at his university in Boston. He believes everything in the universe is connected, and everything happens for a reason. Unlike most of the citizens in his terrorism-plagued city, he’s convinced the only way to hold the country together is for both sides to truly see each other.

The two men meet by chance, and each sees in the other an opportunity to achieve his goal.

As the national crisis accelerates, however, Daniel’s cherished beliefs collide with the harsh reality of separatist violence, and he is soon torn between duty to his church and his growing feelings for Jaxtyn. When their lives are threatened, the two men must find a way to overcome their differences and accept their love for each other, while they fight to both save themselves and prevent a civil war.

Excerpt

Into the Lion’s Den
John Patrick © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

“This is not a test. Take cover immediately.”

Daniel’s cheek was squished against the bathtub wall. He breathed through his mouth while Jaxtyn—on top of him—frantically tugged at the blankets to cover their heads. Outside, sirens wailed, urging action. Through the closed bathroom door, Daniel could hear the announcements from the wall screen in Jaxtyn’s bedroom.

“This is not a test. Take cover immediately.” The warning repeated again and again, first in English, then Spanish, and then several more languages Daniel didn’t recognize. Jaxtyn’s foot slipped against the tub’s wall, and his elbow dug into Daniel’s ribs. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his coffee-scented breath puffing against Daniel’s face.

“This is not a test. Take cover immediately.”

God was punishing Daniel. That much was certain. Not even two months into his first mission, he’d failed to bring any of Boston’s sinners to Jesus, and—worse, much worse—he’d violated God’s sacred plan by succumbing to his own personal demons. Had it only been five minutes earlier that he’d condemned his soul to hell? Had he really almost kissed Jaxtyn?

Sure, it was a furtive, spontaneous thing, and in his panic, he’d pulled away before it truly began. But still. Did he really think he could flaunt God’s will? Of course he couldn’t. He’d failed. A spectacular, final descent into sin, and not five minutes later God announced his wrath through…whatever this was.

“This is not a test. Take cover immediately.”

How had his life spiraled out of control so quickly? Only six months earlier, he was secure in his faith and his future, safe and cocooned in the loving community of his missionary college, confident and eager, ready to work God’s will in the world. And now this.

“This is not—” The announcement cut off, immediately replaced by a series of shrill, sharp blasts. Outside, the sirens shut down, and an ear-splitting steady alarm took their place.

“Radiation detected! This is not a test. Take cover immediately.”

Above him, Jaxtyn sucked in a breath and squeezed lower into the tub, pressing more tightly against Daniel.

Daniel closed his eyes and began to pray.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Author John Patrick is a Lambda Literary Award finalist living in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, where he is supported in his writing by his husband and their terrier, who is convinced he could do battle with the bears that come through the woods on occasion (the terrier, that is, not the husband). An introvert, John can often be found doing introverted things like reading or writing, cooking, and thinking deep, contemplative thoughts (his husband might call this napping). He loves to spend time in nature—“forest bathing” is the Japanese term for it—feeling connected with the universe. But he also loathes heat and humidity, bugs of any sort, and unsteady footing in the form of rocks, mud, tree roots, snow, or ice. So his love of nature is tempered—he’s complicated that way.

John and his husband enjoy traveling and have visited over a dozen countries, meeting new people, exploring new cultures, and—most importantly—discovering new foods.

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Oct 01

New Release Blitz: The Hungry Butterfly by Eule Grey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Hungry Butterfly

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/01/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 18500

Genre: Horror, contemporary, thriller, body horror, bisexual, British, suspense

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Description

Downtrodden charity worker Brenda can’t believe her luck when she gets a new job on a medical trial. It’s a dream position with a generous wage—almost too good to be believable. Life has never been better…

Until Brenda discovers some concerning facts about the company facilitating the trial. Why is FixMe so impatient for results? She keeps telling her manager you can’t change lives overnight, but Thomas doesn’t listen.

She should have noted the red flags.

Fortunately, Brenda isn’t ultimately responsible for the trial’s ethics. Who’s going to care if she forges signatures? One or three teeny-weeny fibs don’t matter.

She should have called the police.

Bells ring when Brenda starts ‘forgetting’ things. Where did she leave her case notes, and why can’t she remember writing them? Then Brenda’s customers disappear, but it’s too late for regrets.

She should have run.

It’s a constant struggle to remember what truly matters. Brenda doesn’t mean to lie or cheat, not at the start. What begins as a second chance at adulting ends with a trail of body bags and a broken butterfly.

She shouldn’t have done it.

Excerpt

The Hungry Butterfly
Eule Grey © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Brenda

Thomas almost smiled. “We need evidence, Bren. It’s not enough to say you’ve made a difference. We know you have, of course. We are behind you, supporting you all the way. Certainly. But the funders—You understand. What FixMe need, FixMe get! Ha, ha, ha.”

Brenda’s stomach created a series of sounds and sensations similar to an operative building site. She became breathy and lightheaded and felt under attack. When she tried to speak, all that came out was air. “Off. Oof.”

A spray of spit landed on Thomas. He removed his glasses with a Dickensian grimace. “How many cases have you got? I trust you’ve brought the notes?”

Notes? Cases? Brenda turned a snort into a cough. She’d known on the first day the job would be a pile of crap.

FixMe, a newly established charity, worked with people stuck in a cycle of crime. The job description boasted a worthy ethos and decent pay. The cold realities of the work had proved less attractive—no training or support, no induction, no structures or pathways, no risk assessments or colleagues.

All Brenda had been offered as support was a tiny office in a storage facility. Thomas was based far away at an undisclosed location. Once a week, Brenda received an email with a list of names to contact and a reminder that she was doing an extraordinary job.

Since starting the job, she’d trailed the streets, visiting crack dens and prisons. Got nowhere. She’d made hundreds of desperate phone calls to the police and cried in the storage facility toilets. Increasingly, she’d return home by one o’clock and chain-smoke in bed.

“Fourteen cases,” she lied. “Two more sign-ups this week.” She’d meant to say four, which would’ve been an exaggeration since she had no cases. No cases. Zero. A big, fat nothing.

Thomas pointed one long finger; hand poised in mid-air. “Fourteen?” His fingernails were brown as if he’d been scratching at graveyards.

Brenda nodded and then couldn’t stop. Her head went up and down like one of those car toys attached to the dashboard, trapped by motion and movement. Stuck forever.

“You’ll need to up your load to fifty by the end of March.” Thomas licked his lips. “At least. A hundred would be even better, wouldn’t it? Hmm?”

Brenda’s voice hit the unpleasant notes of a shriek. “Fifty?”

“You sound surprised, Brenda. Fifty. Yes. If we want to get paid. And we all want money, don’t we?” Thomas tapped the desk with his FixMe pen, decorated with pretty butterflies. “Payment by results. It’s the deal. Hasta la vista, baby.”

Brenda’s resolve not to argue snapped. The words tumbled out. “But it’s not possible. It’s not! We’re talking about people with numerous barriers who’re entrenched in harmful behaviours. Most of them have mental health issues. There’re no easy fixes. It’s hard enough getting hold of them in the first place. They leave custody and disappear. I have no way of finding them.” Under the table, Brenda’s hands found each other. Her bottom lip wobbled. “I’m struggling. I can’t do it.”

Thomas sighed. He tapped his pen on the desk every few seconds.

To Brenda, the noise of the pen was a frantic heartbeat and the background music of a cult horror film. Tap, tap, tappety tap.

Thomas tapped aggressively. “Have you sought referrals from statutory services? Police and Probation. Social Services. Et cetera.” His head began wobbling like Brenda’s. “I presume so because you assured me it was the case last time we spoke. Hmm?”

Had she? Brenda tried to think back, to be professional and robust, efficient and resourceful, and all she’d promised at the interview. Effective? She’d been drinking too much and not sleeping, and anyway, her memory wasn’t what it used to be. “I. Yes.” It was all she could manage.

Thomas shifted some butterfly-patterned papers. When he spoke, it reminded Brenda of a film about interrogations. “Last supervision. The fourteenth of the month. Two p.m. You reported the project as going well with no issues. We’ve had ten supervisions altogether. It’s been gratifying having such a dedicated and positive employee.” He smiled nastily.

Brenda suddenly needed the toilet.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!

She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!

For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

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

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Oct 01

New Release Blitz: The Death of Rowan Copry by Elaine White (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Death of Rowan Copry

Author: Elaine White

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/01/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 113500

Genre: Paranormal, young adult, contemporary, fantasy, demons, half-demons, gods, non-binary secondary character, necromancy, mage, magic-users, light magic, dark magic, witches, reunited, time travel, urban fantasy

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Description

Fourteen years ago, Storm Tera failed to save the world. Born a prophecy child, foretold to save magic, he went into war untrained, unprepared and lost everything. Ever since, he’s been in self-exile, turning his back on magic as it grows and festers inside of him, unused and unwanted.

Then a young witch makes an offer he can’t refuse: to go back in time and undo the mistakes that led to his failure. They have one chance to rewrite the past, to save everyone he lost, and ultimately…to save magic.

Storm is about to play a game of cat and mouse with time and the Fates. Necromancy is in his blood, but if he can’t find a way to prevent the death of Rowan Copry, he can say goodbye to magic, and life as he knows it, forever.

Excerpt

The Death of Rowan Copry
Elaine White © 2024
All Rights Reserved

August 1, 2040

Waking in a bed of tangled sheets, coated in sweat, was nothing new for Storm. Every night of the last fourteen years had been predictable, from the racing heartbeat and the slow-fading memories, to the shaking of his right hand every time he reached for a cigarette. He took his first puff, raked a hand through his hair, and swung his legs out from under the thin sheet.

Storm walked into the bathroom and started the shower. Eyeing the mirror, the inevitable awaited: black smoke as dark as his magic swirled in his eyes, tempting him to delve into the darkest of powers, a birthright no one had bothered to teach him. If he’d known how to wield forbidden magic, he wouldn’t have spent his adult life having night sweats and nightmares, all because the Fates were bickering bitches.

The thin line along his top lip suggested he was dehydrated. His tawny skin showed paler than usual, meaning he could add anaemia or vitamin deficiencies to his worries. That was all part of living in the West of Scotland, he supposed: sea air and lack of sunshine. Pushing aside the long fringe of his raven hair, he wondered if the time had come to move somewhere new, less conducive to invisibility. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fade for real.

Ignoring the temptation to test his untapped abilities, Storm showered to wash off the shakes, sweat, and lingering memories of the worst night of his life. He dressed in the invisibility of a white T-shirt, black jeans, and a black leather jacket, the same thing everyone else wore in this neck of the woods who came here to disappear. There was a reason he lived above a biker bar, miles from the nearest town, deep in the heart of the woodlands. The storms were turbulent here by the sea, and most witches knew better than to settle where magic was at its wildest.

Storm was safer living far from other magic users, friends and enemies alike. He’d come here to escape the world of magic, laws and backstabbing, and the politics of guardians, gods, and elements. Running didn’t exorcise his demons. He took them everywhere he went. If anyone was desperate enough to seek him out, they knew where to find him. The wind could tell them if they had the sense to listen.

He didn’t bother with keys or a wallet as he left the apartment and descended the steps. Wards carved into the wooden door frame kept everyone out. His bar tab was paid at the end of every month, when he got his pathetic human salary from the docks, and Storm kept strict control of his vices and exit strategies.

Magic coursed through his veins like a torrent of the most volatile cyclone. Nothing calmed the raging heat and hate beneath his skin like working on the docks, unloading the fishing boats. The movement, the lack of a routine, and never knowing what tomorrow would bring was the unpredictability his soul craved, the freedom and life of a drifter, with no job, boss, or family to tie him down.

On solid ground, with nothing but compacted earth and weeds beneath his black boots, he stopped. Storm tipped his head to the sky and basked in what the world could tell him. Rain was coming; not an unfamiliar warning in this area, promising not to be heavy or dangerous. He mentally pushed the warning aside and moved on to the next. The wind wanted him to know magic was in the air, someone powerful approaching from the west. He’d suspect someone was passing through, coming for his help, but the wind seemed unsure. When Storm stuck his tongue out, the first drop of rain brought little clarity. Something was coming. A deeply buried instinct screamed Beware! Nosy. Too curious. Whoever was on their way, the rain thought they should mind their own business.

Around Halloween, curious kids would drift through town in hopes of seeing the crackpot Storm Tera: prophesied Chosen One, mage of the elements and earth. Too early in the year for that, he wondered what was hunting him and why they made the wind nervous.

Storm mused over what was coming, wondering if they would be brave enough to approach or if he’d get to keep his peace for another day. Hopefully, the latter.

He went into the bar beneath his apartment, ignoring the stale air and sticky floor to focus on the familiar hints of hops and cigar smoke. The latter came from the old man in the corner, a permanent fixture since Storm moved here three years ago.

He smiled, remembering the first time the man had spoken to an invisible companion. Storm had tapped into his powers, wondering if a spirit, demon or creature was toying with the man, but there had been nothing.

Storm caught the bartender’s eye. He gave a nod of greeting and took the centre stool at the bar like always. No one spoke to him; they never did. The bartender tended to flirt late at night when Storm was leaving. He’d get that look in his big blue eyes, tip his head in curiosity and wait for Storm to make the first move. He never did, never would.

How could he explain the nightmares that plagued him each night? No ordinary person, those who lacked even the simplest magical gifts, would understand the black mist clouding his eyes whenever he felt too strongly, all because he didn’t know how to suppress the darkness in his veins.

Settled in his stool, Storm tapped out a cigarette and used Ithen’s old lighter for his second smoke of the night. At barely after midnight, he’d only left the bar a few hours ago but no one would remark on his return. They never did.

A glass of scotch appeared along with a tentative smile. When he didn’t react, except to lift his glass and take a drink, the bartender moved on, knowing better than to hover.

A lesson he wished the rest of the world would learn.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Elaine White is the author of multi-genre MM romance, celebrating ‘love is love’ and offering diversity in both genre and character within her stories.

Growing up in a small town and fighting cancer in her early teens taught her that life is short and dreams should be pursued. She lives vicariously through her independent, and often hellion characters, exploring all possibilities within the romantic universe.

The Winner of two Watty Awards – Collector’s Dream (An Unpredictable Life) and Hidden Gem (Faithfully) – and an Honourable Mention in 2016’s Rainbow Awards (A Royal Craving) Elaine is a self-professed geek, reading addict, and a romantic at heart.

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

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Sep 28

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

Title: Jack Long and the Demon’s Deal

Author: L.J. Hamlin

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/17/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 39800

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

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Description

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

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

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

Excerpt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Jack asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

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

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Sep 27

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

Author: Mychael Black

Cover Art: Bryan Keller

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

Themes: Gay, Rock Star Romance, Vampires

Series: Fragile Web (#2)

Multiverse: Blood & Fire (#4)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 71

Description

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

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

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

Excerpt

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

“Samuel!”

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

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

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

“His name is — oh! There he is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of band?”

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

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

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

“Nah. I keep to myself.”

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

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

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

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

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

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

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

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

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Sep 24

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

Title:  Ex

Author: Alicia Thompson

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/24/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Female, Female/Female

Length: 94200

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

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Description

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

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

Excerpt

Ex
Alicia Thompson © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

Exigent
Def. Pressing, demanding.

November 2011

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

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

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

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

“—Adele? Are you—”

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

Chapter One

X Marks the Spot
Def. Ground zero

January 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you here to watch the game?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You—you knew Toby?”

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

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

“Mrs Soames?”

She jerked her head back in Charlie’s direction.

“Are you all right?”

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

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

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

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

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

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Sep 17

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

Title:  The Anger Chronicles

Series: The Anger Chronicles, Book One

Author: Jessie Preisendorfer

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/17/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 76800

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

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Description

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

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

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

Excerpt

The Anger Chronicles
Jessie Preisendorfer © 2024
All Rights Reserved

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

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

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Sep 10

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

Title:  Let the Bite One In

Series: Kitten and Blonde, Book Two

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/10/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 41900

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

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Description

Throw a hungry vampire a steak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excerpt

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

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

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

They look through me because I don’t matter.

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

“Help!”

I mattered once, but I lost her.

I lost her.

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

Did I ever exist?

Am I real?

Shut up.

Shut up!

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

It’s him.

Coming.

For.

Me.

“Help!”

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

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

“What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!

She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!

For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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Sep 03

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

Title:  Peril in Provence

Series: The Mary Grey Mysteries, Book Four

Author: Winnie Frolik

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/03/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 60400

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

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Description

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

Excerpt

Peril in Provence
Winnie Frolik © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Provence, October 28, 1937

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the screams.

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Meet the Author

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

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