Enjoy this collection of paranormal fantasy tales, this festive season. The collection is free at the following retailers.
Amazon UK (Bookfunnel)
Demon Riders is part of a Kickstarter project from author Jack Holder.
In the near future, the world is overrun by magic, demons walk the world and Demon Riders like Kait Demonborn are responsible for keeping them in line and protecting humans. As her name suggests, Kait is part demon herself.
I loved the dark humor in this book, The author paints a vivid world that holds many stories. I look forward to more in the series. If you are a fan of fantasy, magic and demon hunters, then this is the book for you. Look out for it on Amazon as it will be released soon.
I spin around and see two women rolling on the ground, hair flying. Fights are a pretty rare occurrence, but when they happen it’s nasty. I once read that men fight to injure, but women fight to kill.
The women roll closer to our table, and we all jerk out of the way in case some of the action heads toward us. I can hardly see who it is, but Georgina is quick to say it’s Roxie and Jinx. And they are going at each other: hands whacking, hair pulling, face slapping, and rib kicking. The whole nine. But it doesn’t go on for too long. Two guards descend on them, yanking the women apart. Some damage is already done. Jinx has a bloody nose and a swelling eye, and Roxie’s lip is split open.
“Fuck, man. Did you see that? Roxie almost killed the bitch! Bam!” Margot slams her hand on the table and my head rings. Jodi laughs. Must be nice for her to sit back and chuckle, since she’s never actually fought in here.
“Enough, Margot, or the guards are gonna be over here next.” Steph eyes her and Margot settles down.
The cafeteria is returning to normal so we sit again, and I try to force a spoonful of my cold, lumpy lunch down. It takes all my concentration to swallow the disgusting mouthful. My stomach clenches, so I drop my spoon.
“No offense, princess, but you look like shit,” Georgina says in between shovels. She’s a fat pig. No matter how disgusting the food is in here, don’t take your eyes off your plate or it’ll be in her goddamn mouth before you know what’s happening.
I lock my gaze on her. “Thanks. Just giving you a chance to feel a bit better about your ugly ass.”
She shoots me the finger.
“Seriously, you look pale, like even more than normal,” Stephanie chimes in, sounding far too motherly for my liking.
I smile. “Thanks, ladies. You sure are the fucking cheer committee today.”
“This shrink is really taking the piss outta you, huh? I ain’t never seen you so frazzled before,” Jodi says.
“I’m just tired. Been sleeping like shit, the food is inedible, and yes, talking in circles about your feelings is agony. So I’m taking donations—any booze, pills, or weed is welcome.” Most of what I say is bravado. Keeping up appearances is key to survival in this hellhole. I can’t afford to get caught with any contraband in case a miracle happens and I have a chance of getting out. What a kick in the tit that would be, if I got approved only to have a stupid joint found in my bunk.
“We’re all suffering in here, princess, so buck up.” Georgina braces her gigantic noggin on top of her propped arms.
It takes all my strength to stay calm. Sometimes people in here forget what I’m capable of. Maybe some of them don’t believe in my history and are willing to take a chance by coming at me.
Too bad I’m on my best behavior.
Margot puts a hand in Georgina’s face. “Lay off her, Gina. Ain’t none of us know what being examined under a microscope like that feels like. I know I’d be stressed to fucking shit if my whole future relied on talking to one damn bitch for a couple of weeks.”
“Thanks, Margot, but you don’t have to defend me.”
“Yeah, princess is a big girl. She can take care of herself, or so she wants us to think.”
I glower at her and swallow the scream that threatens to explode out of me. I’m afraid if I release it, I’ll never stop. “You got something to say?” I sit on my hands. Just in case I’m a little too tempted to gouge her eyes out.
Georgina stands up from her spot at the table across from me and walks around to my side. “Actually, yeah. I think you’re a fucking weak-ass bitch who ain’t no one afraid of in here, especially not me. You walk around all high and mighty, thinking you’re better than us, smarter and prettier than us, but guess what—you in here just like the fucking rest of us, and I ain’t scared by your supposed past.” She makes finger quotations an inch from my face.
I stand. We’re eye to eye. I can feel her hot, stinky breath on my face. Her finger jabs me in the chest. My blood fills my ears and I can’t hear much past the intense rushing. I clench my fists at my sides. Ready. I want her to come at me so badly. “Is that so? You gonna do something about it then?” I say, smacking her finger away from me. My eyes narrow on her acne-scarred face.
Before I can register what’s happening, I feel her two bony hands dig into my chest. The air is pushed out and I gasp. My legs tremble. Teeth clench.
It only takes me a second to leap onto her. Her fingers are entwined in my hair and I can feel the pressure as she yanks. I elbow her, and she lets go. The top of my hand swings across her cheek and I hear a loud slapping sound. Her head flies back, her arms wave wildly as she tries to grab a hold of me, but my adrenaline is pumping so hard that I don’t feel anything. My hands find their way to her neck. I squeeze and squeeze. Teeth gritting.
The power of my fingers pressing into the flesh of her neck makes me shiver with excitement. It feels like I can breathe for the first time since that day in the library all those years ago.
I have tunnel vision. I only see her eyes rolling back and her mouth attempting to suck in air. My heartbeat increases in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. My hands and wrists must be aching, but I don’t feel them.
Her arms keep flailing. Her fingers attempt to dig at my face. I don’t feel that either, I just keep pressing my hands into her. Squeezing. I wonder how much longer until she dies. I’m tingling all over.
And then I feel hands on me—pulling and yanking me off her. I fight harder, and then so do the hands.
My grasp is broken. I’m being lifted into the air. I’m screaming and swearing. I’m shaking, ferocious with rage. It’s a sensation from a time very long ago, yet it’s so familiar to me.
A man’s gruff voice breaks into my trance. My arms are twisted behind my back where I’m cuffed. Tightly. “That’s enough, Wilkanson! You’re done! You’re done!”
Now that I’m off her, I realize in a sobering moment that he might not be talking about just the fight. A hurtling wave of nausea makes my stomach twist and my mouth water.
I may have just ruined any chance I ever had to get out of here.
I’m whisked away by two guards who throw me into solitary.
They aren’t gentle with me as they literally launch me inside the room. I’ve never been in here before, but I’ve heard enough horror stories to know I never wanted to see it. I land on the ground with a thud. My bones vibrate from the motion. My arms are sore and bruised above my elbows where I was manhandled.
“I got to say, I’m surprised to see you in here, Wilkanson. There goes your perfect record. Was it worth it?” The guard, Han, shakes his head. He looks like a disappointed daddy and not some guy who’s getting underpaid to deal with us lowlifes.
I remain quiet, as is my right. It’s about the only thing I can control in here.
The other guard that has kindly accompanied me to the hole is Rickers. Unlike Han, has a smug smile on his face, like he’s been waiting for this moment with a lousy fifty bucks riding on it.
Han spins me around and unlocks the handcuffs. My wrists are sore from being forced into the cold, hard metal. I rub them, trying to get the circulation back into my hands. My brain finally registers where I am as I look around the closet-sized room. There’s nothing in here but a sweat- stained pad on the floor and a disgusting dirty blanket that I wouldn’t touch for fear of contracting scabies or countless other contagious diseases.
“Someone will be in later to bring you to your hearing. Do you want anyone else there with you?” Rickers asks.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand what’s happening,” I say, and it’s the truth. I’ve never committed an offense before. My anger has dwindled, and I’m left in a state of confusion and shock. My body trembles. I can even feel my ribs shaking. What did I fucking do?
Han stands tall, shoulders squared, with his hand on his baton. He looks like he’s ready to take down a linebacker and not some hundred-and-ten-pound chick. “You’ll be taken in to see an adjudicator. You can bring in witnesses if you think it’ll help your case. You’ll tell them what happened and plead guilty or not guilty of the offense—in this case, assaulting a fellow inmate.”
“But Georgina started it. She hit me first!” Ugh. I hear the pitiful whine in my voice and I wonder how I suddenly became a petulant child. I need to get my shit together before the hearing if I have any hope in hell of being taken seriously. “Can you ask Stephanie Harvey and Jodi Brown to come? They were there.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Han says.
“So what, I have to stay in here until then? How long does this hearing take to set up?” I ask. My palms are slick, and I wipe them on the thighs of my pants.
“It could be a few hours.”
“Oh, great,” I exhale, relieved.
“Or it could be tomorrow,” Rickers adds.
My eyes and mouth widen. “What? You mean to tell me that I could be stuck in this hell
hole overnight?” My mind reels. My bunk is shitty, but it’s the Westin compared to this hovel. “That’s right.” Rickers smiles. “Shoulda thought about that before you tried to kill someone in here.” He walks out with Han right behind him.
My hand goes up and I wave for them to stop. “No, wait. You can’t leave me.”
Han takes another step away. “I’m afraid we can, and just in case we’re not back today, sleep tight.” The hefty steel door slams shut. The sound reverberates, echoing painfully in my ears. I’m dizzy. The walls look like they’re getting closer. The air is cold and stale. My stomach turns over.
Think, Ryann. Lunch was served at one o’clock. The fight happened just after, which puts it around two. There’s got to be enough time to get a judge or adjudicator to see me. What if the warden won’t let Steph and Jodi out to testify for me?
I need water. My mouth is so dry.
Surely someone will come soon. In twelve years at this prison, I’ve never so much as hid a candy bar I wasn’t supposed to have. I don’t deserve this.
Fighting is a major infraction. Georgina wanted this. This was probably her fucking plan the entire time.
What the fuck did I do?
What you are about to read is a true story. It’s from my book, Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups. It came about because my editor hounded me for two years to put all my short stories into one collection. Actually, it was supposed to be a two-volume set because there was so much material. I fended her off for as long as possible. I didn’t want to do the work of editing all the stories. There were a lot of them. But she finally wore me down. Instead of two volumes, I put all the stories into a single book because I wanted to get the whole thing over with. I had other books to write.
Bedtime Stories is made up of fiction and nonfiction stories and some of ’em are about my criminal youth. I must tell you, I never thought any of these stories would see the light of day. I wrote them for myself and then forgot about them. By the way, there are all sort of genres within its pages, from westerns to detective stories to love stories and just about anything else that you can imagine.
There are a whole lotta stories in the book—700 pages worth. Enough to keep you reading for the foreseeable future.
Here’s one of my hitching adventures. By the way, in the hitching tales, I use my real name, Billy Doyle—Andrew Joyce being my pen name.
John, Kris, and Me
It was 1968; I was eighteen-years-old, and I was hitchhiking from Miami to New York. I had gotten off the beaten track, so to speak. I should have stayed on US 301 (this was before the Interstate Highway System), but instead found myself just south of Memphis, hoping to catch a ride into Nashville by noon and then catch a long haul out of that city.
It was early morning. The traffic was light, and I wasn’t having much luck when, suddenly, a black Mustang screeched to a halt, and the guy driving leaned over and said through the open passenger-side window, “I’m headin’ to Nashville, that do you any good?”
Of course I said, “Yes,” and jumped in.
As he’s accelerating, he’s looking straight ahead, not saying anything, which is kinda strange but not unusual when you’re hitching. So I said nothing and stared out the windshield at the fast approaching skyline of Memphis. Then it hit me. I know this guy; I should have tumbled from the voice.
At that time in my life, I was not into different types of music; I liked rock n’ roll. Since then my taste in music has matured to encompass all types. But even though this guy wasn’t a rocker, I knew him and his music. A couple of his songs had crossed over and were played on the top forty stations.
The driver was intent on what he was doing, but I think he caught me looking at him out of the corner of his eye. I noticed he had a firm grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles were white. After a few minutes, he turned to me, saying, “Howdy, my name’s John.” At the same time, he raised his right hand from the wheel and stuck it out in my direction.
We shook hands, and I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cash. My name is Billy.”
Once John and I shook hands, he became more talkative. Hell, he became downright verbose. He told me about his hitchhiking adventures and asked me about mine. We were three hours out of Nashville and I don’t think there was another quiet moment for the whole three hours. We talked about life, women, and we even got into a metaphysical discussion. He told me about his army days and the time he was arrested in Texas. Just to keep even, I told him stuff that had happened to me while on the road. We didn’t talk about his music or anything like that. I’d been around enough to know that coming off as a gushing fan would have been a major turn-off for him. And besides, at the time, I was not a fan, gushing or otherwise. But by the time we hit Nashville, I was becoming a fan … of the man if not his music.
As we neared Nashville, he told me he’d just gotten married a few months back and was dying to see his wife. “I’ve been gone two days and it feels like two years,” he informed me. Then he said, “It’s about dinner time; why not stop in and get something to eat and then hit the road. June’s a great cook.”
Dinner is what country folk call lunch.
I accepted his kind offer, and we got off the highway and headed for his home, which was only a few blocks away. When we got to his house and as we were pulling into the driveway, he said, “Looks like June is out somewhere, but don’t worry, we’ll rustle somethin’ up.”
I told him not to bother, that I could cadge a meal down the line. He looked at me, shook his head, and in that deep voice, he asked me if I had any money. Of course, I didn’t and I told him so. He told me that he’d been on the road and hungry, and that if I didn’t get my butt in the house pronto, he’d drag me inside.
So in we went, and we walked right back to the kitchen. John told me to sit at the table as he opened the refrigerator and looked around for a moment before saying, “Ah ha! It’s still here.” And he pulled out a platter with a ham on it. I mean a real ham, bone and all! He also came up with a jar of mustard and a hunk of cheese. As he started to slice the ham, he told me where the bread and plates were kept and asked me to get them.
When the sandwiches were made—two of them—he asked me if I’d like a beer.
So there I am, sitting in the kitchen of a man I’d met only a few hours before, and I’ve got two thick ham and cheese sandwiches and a can of beer in front of me. Not a bad score and the day was still young!
I asked him if he was going to eat, and he said beer would do him fine.
We’re sittin’ at the kitchen table, shooting the shit, when the doorbell rings. John gets up, but before he leaves, he takes a long swig of beer. “Be right back,” he says. A few minutes later, he comes back into the kitchen with this guy.
“Billy, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This here is Kris.”
I had my mouth filled with ham sandwich, so I mumbled a hello. He waved and smiled, “Glad to meet ya, Billy.”
John asked Kris, “How about a sandwich and a beer?”
“Just a beer, please. It’s my lunch hour, and I’ve got to get back to work. But I have a new song I’d like you to hear and see what you think of it.”
By now, I’d eaten my two sandwiches, and I had nothing to add to the conversation, so I figured I’d just finish my beer and get the hell out of there. But before I could say my thanks and hit the road, John leaves the room and returns a moment later with a guitar.
Prior to my going any further, I’ve got to lay the scene out for you. We’re sitting at a round kitchen table. To my left is John and directly opposite me is this guy, Kris Kristofferson (before he was famous). John and I were hitting our beers and watching Kris tune the guitar. Then he picked at the strings and started to sing. I don’t remember what the song was. I wasn’t really paying attention. In my mind, I was rehearsing my good-bye speech to John.
When Kris was done, we all three sat there looking at one another. I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my opinion Kris sought. Kris didn’t say anything because he was waiting for John to say something, which he finally did.
“It’s not bad. But I don’t know if it’s for me.”
I’ve got to hand it to Kris; he smiled broadly and said, “That’s okay. I just wanted you to hear it and get your thoughts.” Then he lifted his beer and said, “Prosit.” That was my cue to leave. I stood and told John I had to hit the road. He said he’d drive me back to the highway, but I told him not to bother, he had company, and besides, it was only a few blocks away. Kris said if I could wait a few minutes, he’d drop me off at the highway on his way back to work. I declined his offer. I didn’t want to wait around. I had a full stomach and New York City was calling to me. I said my good-byes and walked out the front door, retrieved my case from the Mustang and headed off for further adventures.
Just one last thing: When I got to New York and opened my case, there was Benjamin Franklin staring up at me from on top of my clothes. John must have put the C-note in there when he went to let Kris in.
Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups is a jumble of genres—seven hundred pages of fiction and nonfiction … some stories included against the author’s better judgment. If he had known that one day they’d be published, he might not have been as honest when describing his past. Here is a tome of true stories about the author’s criminal and misspent youth, historical accounts of the United States when She was young, and tales of imagination encompassing every conceivable variety—all presented as though the author is sitting next to you at a bar and you’re buying the drinks as long as he keeps coming up with captivating stories to hold your interest.
Comprised of 218,000 words, you’ll have plenty to read for the foreseeable future. This is a book to have on your night table, to sample a story each night before extinguishing the lights and drifting off to a restful sleep.
Mr. Joyce sincerely hopes that you will enjoy his stories because, as he has stated, “It took a lot of living to come up with the material for some of them.”
Andrew Joyce left high school at seventeen to hitchhike throughout the US, Canada, and Mexico. He wouldn't return from his journey until years later when he decided to become a writer. Joyce has written five books. His first novel, Redemption: The Further Adventures of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, was awarded the Editors' Choice Award for Best Western of 2013. A subsequent novel, Yellow Hair, received the Book of the Year award from Just Reviews and Best Historical Fiction of 2016 from Colleen's Book Reviews.
Joyce now lives aboard a boat in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with his dog, Danny, where he is busy working on his next book, tentatively entitled, Mahoney: An American Story.
“Rahym? Rahym Tezel? Is that you?”
I still, recognizing the voice. A million and one memories seem to physically hit me, sucking the air out of my lungs.
“Yes, it’s me,” I say warily. “Who are you?”
Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t… both my subconscious and I chant.
I really don’t want to deal with that asshole right now. Or ever again, for that matter.
I get my answer. One of the hooded riders dismounts, landing in the sand. He lifts the hood back and looks at me, his emerald green eyes glowing with unearthly power. The sharp planes of his face are exaggerated by the light from the Door as he gives me a lopsided smile.
“Nakir,” I say, with a false sense of bravado, and I wish I were seeing him under different circumstances. I’ “What are you doing here?”
The smile grows, as a second rider swings a leg over the side of their horse. The rider strides up next to the asshole that I blame for the shattered remains of my life. This much closer, I can see that it’s a woman, although she doesn’t lift her hood, so I can’t see her face.
“We’re on the road, Rahym,” Nakir says, drawing my attention back to him. “And we need your help.”
“My help?” I ask.
“I’m flattered, but I don’t do that anymore. People tend to die around you.”
To my surprise, the woman next to Nakir chuckles mirthlessly. She may be crazier than I am. Not a good sign.
Nakir smirks. “Dying. Right. That’s exactly why we need you, Rahym.”
Nakir exchanges a glance with the woman. She pulls back her hood, and from the depths of my memory, I recall her.
Well, this night has taken an unexpected turn.
“Jennet,” I say, calling out her name. It’s been years, and the last time I saw her, we were teenagers, but the curve of her lips tells me that I identified her correctly. A new sort of horror overtakes me; what is Jennet doing with Nakir?
“Hello, Rahym,” she says in a clear voice. “We’re going to lift the curse. And we need you to lead us through the Door to Hell.”
1) Tell us about your book
This book was written based on a true story that was given to me by a woman I was acquainted with. Some of the activities by the ghost are exaggerated, but it carries the gist of the story. For example, the woman did donate the hat to her local church, the only difference is, she never went back for it. She left it there to find another home.
2) Who is your main character?
My main character is the woman who gave me the story. She's a strong, independent woman, who manages her household without much help from her husband. Therefore, the fact that she didn't tell him what was going on with the ghost is because that's the way she took care of most things in her house.
3) Is this a standalone or part of a series?
This is a standalone and not part of a series.
4) What is next for you?
I just finished, this month to be exact, a western historical romance. Currently, I'm working on a Native American Romance and a memoir novel that’s with the editor.
1. Tell us about your book
Haunted House Harbor: Humanity’s Hope (book 1): The world has just been struck by the “Perfect Apocalypse”: Nuclear bombs, disease, famine, zombies, killer bees and many other hidden terrors. As the world crumbles, a group of survivors discovers there is only one safe haven: the mysterious town of Haunted House Harbor. For some reason, all of the unleashed perils cannot penetrate the city limits. But there’s one problem—Haunted House Harbor has its own dark side. Suicides, mass murders, and insanity have plagued the town for over a hundred years. Is Haunted House Harbor humanity’s last hope, or is it in fact, their ultimate doom?
That is the core concept behind the book. Essentially, the situation is rock or hard place – make your choice.
In most zompoc books, the authors explore not only the world’s shock and horror at being thrown into a zombie apocalypse, but they also explore man’s inhumanity to man. Certainly plenty to explore there, but I wanted to take the genre in a new direction.
You see, I’ve always thought, if zombies turned out to be real, doesn’t that imply that perhaps other creatures that go bump in the night are real as well? And if they are real, what if they decide to take advantage of the situation?
In this case, we have The Amityville Horror meets The Walking Dead. Most people remember the famous final scene in the movie where the Lutz family members are running for the front door as all hell breaks loose, (similar final scene in Poltergeist too, for that matter). Well ask yourself, would they have run out that door if they knew zombies were waiting for them on the front porch? Maybe not. Maybe the Lutz family would have decided bleeding walls and a disembodied voice that growls “Get out!!” were livable conditions. But of course, the question becomes, for how long? How long can you be trapped in a frying pan before the fire starts looking pretty damn good?
The real difference between the two choices is the hell outside of HHH is pretty brutal and in your face. Inside HHH, well, this town has been tormenting people for over a hundred years; it’s subtle and insidious. Kind of that scenario with the frog sitting in water, not noticing that someone has turned up the heat; you don’t get how much trouble you’re in at first. And as time goes by, what will you put up with to avoid the zombies? What price are you willing to pay?
In regards to the “Perfect Apocalypse”, I wanted the situation to evolve into something bigger than a simple zombie apocalypse. Take special note of the line “many other hidden terrors”. I don’t reveal all of the dangers right off, not even in the first book. Trust me when I say, the apocalypse will escalate inside and outside of the town.
2. Who is your main character and what can you tell us about him/her?
Like in most zombie books, there is a wide range of individuals who get thrown together, but the main character is a seventeen-year-old girl by the name of Norma Kershaw. She has Asperger’s which is a form of autism (high-functioning) and also suffers from agoraphobia (the fear of going outside). When the apocalypse hits, she’s at home with her mother who is in a wheel chair.
I got the idea from another marvelous book Queen of Bones written by Gregg Zimmerman, where the main character is also in an apocalypse and has a problem with her hip. From reading this book, I became fascinated with the idea of what someone with a handicap would do during an apocalypse. You will see I took it a few steps further by exploring different handicaps (spread across several characters).
I especially wanted to explore this concept during a zombie apocalypse, because most zombie books have military men save the day. Well what if you don’t have combat training? Or what if these military men show up and aren’t the saviors you thought they’d be? This has certainly come up many times in other Zompoc books. The way I see it, no matter your state of combat readiness or physical, mental, or emotional challenges, you’d be doing everything in your power to save yourself and your family. And I believe people are capable of doing amazing things when the occasion calls for it. I’ve known many individuals with handicaps (including three teenage girls with Asperger’s) and I believe people who face challenges in life are sometimes better equipped to handle changing situations than other people.
3. Is this a standalone or part of a series?
Well, I have an odd answer for you. It’s part of two series, actually.
The Haunted House Harbor series has three books: 1) Humanity’s Hope, 2) Humanity’s Horror and 3) Humanity’s Hell. There are only three books in the series because I ran out of H words to use (haha).
So why all of the damn H’s? What the “H” is my obsession with the letter “H”?
Because that’s what this book was supposed to be, it was meant to represent the letter “H” in project 26 (p26) being put out by J. Ellington Ashton Press. The publisher, Catt Dahman, came up with the idea last year for our press to publish 26 books, each one representing a letter in the alphabet that in turn stood for a horror concept. She offered me four letters, J for Jurassic (my other novel this year is Jurassic Jackaroo: Jasper’s Junction), Q (Quarantine, an anthology), N (Nocturnal Nightmares, an anthology) and H (for haunted house).
I was thrilled with all of them, but I had to admit, H had me shaking in my boots. I’ve always wanted to write a book on haunted houses, but I couldn’t think of anything original to do with this concept. As always, I took my dog for a walk to think it out. Being the Czarina of Fusion Horror, I came up with this idea after about an hour. I knew the characters, the situation, and even how the book series would end.
I asked the publisher if she was surprised with the direction my novel took. She said that little surprises her anymore (in the horror genre, I wouldn’t doubt that for a second) but that she was very proud of how this book turned out and the creativity involved. A very high compliment from a very talented lady. Thanks Catt Dahman!
4. What are you working on Next?
The sequel to the Hunted Tribe series, The Hunted Tribe: Rocket’s Red Glare
Date Published: September 1, 2017
Publisher: Imajin Books
As Sheriff Piper Blackwell rushes to a clandestine meeting with an aging, paranoid veteran who believes spies are trailing his every move, she is caught in a fierce thunderstorm. Pounding rain drums against the bluff, washing away the earth and revealing a grisly secret someone tried to bury a long time ago.
Putting a name to the skeleton on the bluff, and searching for the thief who robbed the old veteran of his life’s earnings, sends Piper delving into the sleepy towns that dot her rural county. Now she’s digging into pasts perhaps best left alone.
Accompanied by Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg, Piper seeks to expose a truth someone wants to remain forever hidden. The investigation may have started with a thunderstorm, but Piper aims to finish it and find justice. Uncovering fragments of Spencer County’s history could prove more dangerous—and deadlier—than she ever expected.
About the Author
Jean Rabe is the author of thirty-eight novels, more short stories than she cares to count, and has edited magazines and anthologies. She’s new the mystery field, as her earlier works were in fantasy and science fiction. The Dead of Night is her second Piper Blackwell book, an uncozy-cozy with a big dash of police procedural thrown in. The first, The Dead of Winter, was released in 2016. Jean attends game conventions, works as a mentor for graduate-level writing students, and tosses tennis balls for her dogs in her spare time. She makes sure she has spare time for three or four toss sessions a day. You can find her website at www.jeanrabe.com.
A Kendra Spark Novel
Genre: Paranormal Suspense-Thriller Romance
with a good dollop of Supernatural
Publisher: Books We Love Publishing
Date of Publication: September 15, 2017
Number of pages: 153 pages
Word Count: 63,000
Cover Artist: CoverUp.Net
Book Tagline: Kendraâs ability of communicating with the dead is requested by her FBI criminal analyst friend to stop a killer from murdering agents.
Series Tagline: Kendra sees ghosts, and then her BFF, Jenna, becomes one. The two friends and FBI agent Derek Knight fight for justice to the victims of heinous crimes.
Kendra Spark, suspense-mystery romance author and communicator with the dead, is requested to hop on the first flight to D.C.
Jenna Powers, FBI criminal analyst and estranged best friend of Kendra, gets ghosticized in a fatal accident before relaying all the details of the FBI killer case.
Derek Knight, a dedicated FBI Special Task Force agent, takes lead on the case.
The investigation into the FBI agent killings continues as Kendra, Jenna â yes, even after death â and Derek work together on the case before Director of the Special Task Force Jackson Powersâ number is up. Heâs Jennaâs father and the end-game of the killerâs target list.
Somehow the elusive killer remains undetected, until Kendraâs unique ability produces results and a final possibility at stopping his killing spree before itâs too late.
From the Author Review Copy: The scene â Derek has Kendra in a casual interrogation room inside the FBI building â D.C. location
The door opened and Jackson Powers entered before I could respond.
He glanced around the room stopping when he saw me; his red rimmed eyes spoke volumes. I clearly remembered his presence, a straightforward man, full of confidence and direction, but in this moment he appeared like a man broken. I rose and reached for a hand shake. Instead, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a big bear hug.
âIâm so very sorry about Jenna. Sorry for your loss, for my lossâ¦â Muscles tensed around my vocals and cut off the words.
Tears spilled from both of us. Derek stepped out of the room, clicking the door closed.
âJenna told me she was meeting with you today, going to show you the city sights.â Jackson held me for a few more minutes, patting my back and telling me it wasnât my fault.
The thought of the accident initially being my fault had never entered my mind. Why would that thought cross his? I stepped back. Obviously he hadnât received the latest details of the accident, but even so why would he consider that Iâd feel responsible. Even if I questioned that maybe I could have done something to stop her in some way, she did save that boy. âNot sure what you meanâ¦in thinking it could be my fault?â
His eyes widened, maybe a little startled at my blatant question. âI assumed Jenna ran after a little culprit that grabbed your purse or something much worse. She must have gotten caught up in the chase to run in front of on-coming traffic.â His face softened. âKendra, I know Jenna, there was nothing you could have done to stop her. Sheâs always been head-strongâ¦was always
head-strong,â he corrected himself, then his voice cracked, and suddenly something occurred to me.
Jackson isnât privy to Jenna and Derekâs manhunt for the FBI killer, nor the reason Iâm here. Of course. Jenna had tagged along to certain crime scenes while she was still in college, but from all that I remembered, Jackson wanted her profiling cases strictly inside the building. She had access to all the crime scenes from pictures and files on her laptop. At least she always used to complain about his restrictions, and I couldnât imagine he would allow her in the field on a serial killer task force, unless things had changed in the last couple years.
Thereâd been a few close calls on other cases, some of the agentâs family members being abducted or being used for negotiation, leverage. While in college, Jenna told me all the rules her father had enforced if she were to join in any of the FBI cases. He protected her, and now she had returned the favorâ¦to her demise.
Jenna and Derek were hunting the serial killer behind Jacksonâs back.
There was a tap on the door and Derek stepped in. His brows were drawn close, eyes narrowed, perhaps his expression of concern. âSir, I thought Kendra might be hungry. She hasnât eaten all day.â He smiled at me, and then looked back at Jackson. âIâm headed out for a late lunch and thought Iâd take her with me.â
Jacksonâs lips pressed together. He finally lifted his chin toward me. âWell, of course. We certainly wouldnât want anyone going hungry now, would we,â more of a statement than a question. He patted my shoulder. âGo on, Kendra. We can continue our talk later. Iâd like to hear exactly what happened to my daughter from someone who was there to witness it.â
Derek grasped my elbow and led me toward the door.
Instead of following, Jackson released a long breathy sigh and sat on the couch. âShut the door behind you, Derek. And tell Darla I donât wish to be disturbed.â
My heart swelled huge behind my ribcage, again the confining weight pressing in on my ability to breathe. I couldnât imagine the emotional maelstrom Jackson was going through. I knew only my own turbulent ride. Now I needed to get some facts straight; it was my turn to interrogate Derek.
S. Peters-Davis writes multi-genre stories, but loves penning a good page-turning suspense-thriller, especially when itâs a ghost story and a romance. When sheâs not writing, editing, or reading, sheâs hiking, RVâing, fishing, playing with grandchildren, or enjoying time with her favorite muse (her husband) in Southwest Michigan.
She also writes YA paranormal, supernatural novels as DK Davis.
Website â http://suda788.wixsite.com/spetersdavis1
Twitter â https://twitter.com/spdavis788
BWL Author Page â http://bookswelove.net/authors/peters-davis-s/a Rafflecopter giveaway
Paranormal/Witch Cozy Mystery
Date Published: September 5, 2017
Andie Taylor is your average single mom. She's got a beautiful toddler, a great job at the local preschool, a neurotic best friend and one huge secret—she used to hunt vampires. Now retired, Andie would much rather be wiping kid snot off her clothes than stalking the undead.
But after a meteor rips through her small town, strange things start happening—like the school janitor is found dead with fang marks in his neck.
Andie's retired, it's not her problem.
Until vampires attack Andie on her front lawn. Now she has to figure out who the head bloodsucker is and stop him from taking any more victims—all while juggling single motherhood, a crazy great aunt, and Andie's own lust for a fallen angel. Can she solve the mystery before the vampires claim someone else? Or will she become the next target of the bloodsuckers?
About the Author
Amy Boyles grew up reading Judy Blume and Christopher Pike. Somehow, the combination of coming of age books and teenage murder mysteries made her want to be a writer. After graduating college at DePauw University, she spent some time living in Chicago, Louisville, and New York before settling back in the South. Now, she spends her time chasing two toddlers while trying to stir up trouble in Silver Springs, Alabama, the fictional town where Dylan Apel and her sisters are trying to master witchcraft, tame their crazy relatives, and juggle their love lives.
I AM AN AUTHOR, BLOGGER AND A JOURNALIST.
“Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.”