|
Let’s Not and Sleigh We Did
-- EXCERPT: A ring. Not just any ring, a rose gold band. “What are you doing?” I whisper, a little harshly, the ring pulsating in my peripheral vision. “We talked about this, remember?” Luke’s voice drops, rasping. “We talked about marriage.” I tilt my head to one side, as if I’m physically dividing this argument in half., “But not this, and not in front of them.” “You’re being modest.” He laughs, tossing a look back at his parents. “I thought it would be nice to share this moment with them.” “You did?” my voice squeaks, as I’m totally blindsided and wishing I had at least a heads- up. The arrangement had sounded so much more business casual than what’s going on right now. A proposal on one knee is not business casual. This is my heart in my throat, and I’m about to throw up. “Where did you get a ring?” I hiss. “I bought it today.” “Today?” I grapple for my throat, praying something gives before I pass out. “Yeah, today when I was thinking about you.” Doing a hard pause on the word, you, he’s still holding the ring awkwardly in his hand. I frantically search his face for signs of a prank, but he doesn’t have an ounce of humor curved into a smile. He’s one-hundred-percent serious. Quakes rumble against my rib cage. This is an act. I’m clearly about to blow our cover as I’m acting so confused, but this whole thing is blowing my mind. “This is happening so fast.” “It’s okay. Better than okay.” He takes my hand in his, holding it in front of him. “Ten years ago, you kissed me on a dare. You didn’t know it at the time, but I was already falling in love with you. You were my first kiss, but I knew in that moment, I wanted you to be my last.” I blink. Everything about his proposal sounds genuine. My gaze floats to his mom; her hands clasp together in front of her, but her gaze is piercing in my direction. Luke’s dad has a that’s-my-boy grin laced on his lips. And Luke! Luke’s winning an Oscar for his acting. His gaze dials right into mine, like it’s boring a trail through my eyes right to my heart. I can’t even tell it’s a fake proposal, and I one-thousand- percent know it’s fake. It is fake . . . right? 
GIVEAWAY! --
Chase the Dark
About the Kickstarter campaign Celebrate the 10th anniversary of Annette Marie’s gritty epic urban fantasy universe, Steel & Stone, with luxurious collector’s editions. The first of two campaigns, this one will feature the Spell Weaver trilogy and the first book in the Steel & Stone series, Chase the Dark. The Steel & Stone universe encompasses the Spell Weaver Trilogy (three books) and the Steel & Stone Series (five books). These 10th anniversary special editions include:
-- EXCERPT: Piper dropped to her knees beside the vent and listened to the sound of claws on metal. A soft thump came from the other side of the wall. She looked up. She was sitting right outside Ash’s room. The dragonet had run straight to Daddy. Unmoving, Piper contemplated the door. Ash was somewhere behind it. Was he asleep? What were the chances she could sneak in and retrieve the ring box without him noticing? She considered it for half a second. Yeah, zero. Before she could come up with a better plan, the door popped open. Framed in the threshold, Ash looked toward the sitting room. Then he glanced down, saw her sitting at his feet, and blinked. Piper shot up, struggling to keep her gaze on his face. He wore a loose, sleeveless shirt that clung to the planes of his chest and left the sweep of heavy muscles on his arms bare, his fair skin flawlessly smooth in the shadows. The only other thing he wore was black cotton pants. With a soft chirp, the dragonet hopped off the doorframe and landed on his shoulder, its golden eyes trained on Piper. “What are you doing?” Ash asked, breaking the oh-so-awkward silence. Piper shivered as his deep tones slid through her. How did his voice do that? Fear tickled her stomach, reminding her that she’d never been alone with him before. Drawing herself up, she looked him square in the eye. “Your dragonet snuck into my room and stole something from me.” His eyes held hers, and his gray irises dimmed to the color of storm clouds. Piper was abruptly aware of how dangerously close she was standing, barely a foot of space between their bodies. She was also aware of how much taller he was, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, and how his biceps were double the circumference of her arms. The air felt hot and electric, the hallway darker than it’d been a moment before, and adrenaline flooded her bloodstream. She was an idiot. Such an idiot. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Killer Motives
-- EXCERPT: Victoria was home working off some nervous energy as she put the dishes away and wiped yesterday’s smudges off the white Shaker cabinet doors. Out the kitchen window, the sun sparkled magically on the Hudson River reflecting the scarlet and gold of the fall foliage clinging to its steep banks. Her melancholy mood from the evening before had turned to excitement, bolstered by a bit too much caffeine on an empty stomach and her Alanis jams playing in the background. She had already called her attorney and had an appointment for next week. She would put all that out of mind until then. Today, she had a meeting scheduled at her office at eleven this morning, an important one, and her benefit dinner tonight. It was now half past nine and she needed to get going. She was almost finished emptying the dishwasher in her methodical manner–only a few cups were left–when her cell phone vibrated against the granite island countertop, its dark surface blending in with the stone. She reached over to grab it. There was a text from her husband: It’s an emergency. Call me. There were also three missed calls from him and a voicemail. Nick was not given to hyperbole. Quite the opposite. He was actually a bit too laid back, never worrying much about anything. He had never sent a text like that before. She called immediately, not bothering to check her voicemail, putting it on speaker as she finished her chores. “Vic?” His voice was soft, almost apologetic. He didn’t seem hurt or in danger. “Nick. What is it?” She felt mildly annoyed, already. “I have something to tell you, and I’m warning you it’s pretty shocking.” Was he actually going to confess about the affair now? Over a cell call? That was totally unlike him. “I have to get to work, Nick. What’s so urgent?” She was starting to wish she’d ignored his text. “My client. From the Shady Hill property. The one I went to see last night? The police called me. She was found dead. At her house. This morning.” Victoria placed the last clean mug on the counter. Dead? A heart attack or something? No. The police wouldn’t call Nick for something like that. There had to be more to it. She picked up the phone and took it off speaker. “What happened?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. “I don’t know, but a homicide detective is meeting me at the house any minute now. They called and wanted to meet with me in person. ‘See if I could shed some light on it,’ was how he put it. Jeff told me to meet them at our house, not at the station.” “Homicide? She was murdered?” Victoria had to hand it to Nick. This certainly reached the bar of ‘emergency.’ “They didn’t say that, exactly. He said he’d tell me more in person. I don’t know much more than you do at this point. What if I was the last person to see her alive, Vic?” Nick’s voice was shakier now, almost panicky. “So? You’re certainly not responsible for her death?” “That’s what Jeff said.” “What does Jeff have to do with this? You called Jeff before you called me?” She thought that sounded like the actions of a guilty person, reaching out to your attorney friend. But guilty of what? “He’s an attorney! And he knows her! I told you, remember? They had that law suit going. Let’s not do this now. Please!” His tone was harsher now, devoid of sentimentality. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. The detective might get there before I do. They’ll probably want to question you too. Tell them I’m on my way. I’d appreciate some support. I’m your husband, Victoria, please try to remember that.” He hung up. She picked up the mug she’d left on the counter, looking out to the sun’s rays sparkling on the Hudson, her thoughts suspended in the timeless currents of the flowing river. It was all starting to hit her now, just what a disaster this was. The photos that were supposed to liberate her from the marriage were now a liability, potentially placing her at a crime scene. What do detectives look for? Means, motive, and opportunity? She had two out of three for now. Should she be worried? And what about Nick? He was acting strangely last night, and she’d attributed it to a guilty conscience. The affair, she assumed. But could it have been more? She knew Nick wasn’t overtly violent, but anyone could commit murder given the right circumstances. What if the woman had gotten pushy? Demanding? Threatening? How far would Nick go to protect what was his? She needed time to think, consult with an attorney. But she didn’t have the luxury of time. The gate buzzer sounded, jolting her out of her stupor, and the mug slipped from her hand, shattering into pieces on the travertine tile floor. She quickly picked up the big chunks, but the shards of porcelain would have to wait. 
GIVEAWAY! --
How to Solve a Murder with a Grump
-- EXCERPT: I take one look at him. Oh yeah, he’s a grump. Definitely. But I don’t have time for grumps right now. You see, I’m running late and the elevator is taking forever to get to the bottom floor. My best friend is getting married in two days, and I’m the maid of honor. I’m trying to compose a text to the best man so we can talk about the speeches. I should’ve reached out to him ages ago, but this weekend came fast. It snuck up on me. Then, a man near me clears his throat, like he’s trying to send me a message. I take one look at him. No doubt in my mind he’s a Mr. Grumpy Pants, because I can pick them out a mile away. They’re easy to spot once you know the signs. Of course, sometimes you’ll get lucky. You’ll make a quick exit. Or he’ll spill his coffee. Someone else will grab his attention. But there will be times you have to interact with this particular species of men. Just so you know, there are many ways to deal with a grump. I could write a book on it. First, don’t be fooled by those flashing white teeth and sexy smirks. Don’t be fooled by a blue shirt, almost the color of tropical ocean water that offsets the gray of his eyes. Don’t be fooled by the rippling muscles underneath the blue shirt. Nope. Sexy grumps are the most dangerous, because they’ll steal your heart then stomp all over it. 
GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #Emerald Isle by KaSonndra Leigh (Path Seekers, 2) #Paranormal @Xpresso Book Tours28/10/2024
Emerald Isle
-- EXCERPT: Waves from the Atlantic Ocean pummeled the coastline of the small dune known as Shelly Island. A scent like rotten eggs drifted past them. The sun’s last rays gave way to nighttime’s watery embrace. A strange pang lit up her chest. Something behind that window called Alyssa. Or rather some force called to the supernatural side of her, a gift to call upon spirits, passed down through the females in her family. Alyssa had impressed her future sorority mates with tales of the way she attracted ghosts. Going inside and calling up one shouldn’t be a big deal, right? The initiation included calling up the spirit and taking photos. Alyssa removed her phone from her pocket and aimed the lens at the structure. Darkness loomed around the trio, and she stilled her thudding heart. “Let’s get these photos done,” Alyssa said. “We can leave Rodney out here to keep watch. I don’t want him puking all over the floor and making us fall,” Chris said. “Screw you.” Rodney stood tall. “I can do this.” “No one’s leaving anyone,” Alyssa said. “We do this thing together.” Alyssa and her friends turned toward the strange house and went up the stairway. The house cried out in pain. “Make sure we don’t fall through the floor,” Chris said, his confident look replaced by worry. He pushed on the first step and hesitated. Alyssa turned to Chris. “Now who’s the pussy?” “Yeah, right. I got yours right here.” Chris grabbed his crotch and shook it. “Oh, please.” Alyssa wouldn’t let the thought of going inside in the dusk bother her. At night, a demon prowled the area. Or so they said. Sharks washed up on shores at the oddest times. The so-called demon was probably one of those beasts thrashing about. She turned the knob. The door creaked open. A pungent scent of rot and mold wafted out, engulfing the three friends. It was time for the séance. Alyssa led the way inside the dark and musty structure. The floorboards creaked underfoot with every step, as though the house was alive and protesting their intrusion. Though she tried to stifle it, a feeling of unease creeped up her spine. This was different than anything she had ever experienced before. It was almost as if the house was alive and watching them. Chris shone his flashlight around the room, illuminating piles of discarded furniture and debris. The air was thick with dust, making it difficult to breathe without coughing. “This place is creepy,” Rodney said. “I don’t think we should be here.” “Don’t be such a wimp,” Alyssa snapped, her nerves beginning to fray. “Let’s just get this over with,” Chris interrupted. “What do we do first?” Alyssa pulled out a bag of candles and matches from her backpack. “We light the candles and begin the séance.” They found a small, decaying table in the center of the room and set the candles on top. Alyssa lit them one by one, watching as the flames flickered and danced in the dark. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting her mind clear as she focused on calling forth the spirit of the master. “May the spirits of the other world hear our call,” she said in a low, steady voice. “We ask that you come forth and make yourself known to us.” At first, nothing happened. The only sounds were those of the candles flickering and the winds outside. But then, Alyssa felt a cold breeze brush against her skin and a low, guttural growl filled the air. The table began to shake as though something was trying to push its way through from the Otherworld into this one. Suddenly, a figure appeared in front of Alyssa, appearing out of nowhere. It was tall and shadowy, with glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. The chill of terror ran through Alyssa’s veins as the smoky figure grew. It moved with a swift, eerie silence that sent chills up her spine. Then an inhuman howl pierced the darkness, echoing off the trees and sending a shockwave of dread that froze Alyssa and her friends to the spot. Before she could react, the mysterious figure vanished into thin air. “Guys, listen,” Rodney said. Alyssa stood and walked outside. “You hear that?” “I thought this island was deserted.” Chris turned to Alyssa. “What are you looking at me for? Rodney was supposed to check.” Two more howls cut through the silence. The wind picked up, and the waves crashed against the shores harder than before. The full moon pushed her hand against the water. “We need to go back,” Rodney said. This time, neither Alyssa nor Chris teased him about the suggestion. All three kids turned toward the growing fog surrounding the house. A damp and rancid smell, one that was even stronger than the scent of wet wood coming from the house, filled the air. “All right, we’re going back to the boat,” Alyssa announced, punching in the ferryman’s number on her cell phone. No one hesitated as Alyssa walked away from the house, and Rodney and Chris followed close behind her. Another howl sliced through the air. The wind screeched an eerie wail, adding to the burgeoning feeling of terror inside Alyssa’s belly. “I can’t see a damn thing,” Rodney said. The group headed toward the spot where the boat should’ve been. However, the pier sat empty. “Thought you said this was the spot?” Chris turned on Alyssa, his face swollen with rage. “I never should have listened to you. This shit’s gonna get us killed.” “Shut up and let me think!” Alyssa said. The fog thickened, and the chill caressed Alyssa’s skin. The touch almost felt human. She shook off the thought and focused on the situation. At once, Chris’s body went airborne, his screams echoing through the air. Wails of terror. “What the fuck?” Rodney asked in a strained voice. “Stay close to me!” Alyssa shouted. The fog thickened and stung her eyes. “Chris! Where are you?” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Pity Present
-- EXCERPT: When the train pulls into the Elk Lake stop, I jump to my feet and practically run for the exit. Unfortunately, I don’t see the foot blocking the aisle. As such, I wind up making a spectacular display as I trip up the aisle for several yards. My performance is akin to a vaudevillian physical comedy routine. Luckily, a hand reaches out to steady me before I hit the ground. “Whoa there. I’ve got you.” I take a moment to catch my breath before turning to thank my rescuer. One look at his hazelly green eyes and chiseled jaw renders me nearly speechless. Is that a tan? I finally manage to say, “Thump queue.” The Adonis stands up and reaches toward his overnight bag. “Excuse me?” “Thump queue,” I repeat before forcing my mouth to form proper words. “I mean, thank you.” His lips curve ever so slightly before he responds with a wink. “You’re welcome.” I know I just told my sister I wasn’t interested in dating and that she was crazy to suggest I might be about to embark upon my very own cheesy movie experience, but for a split second, a wave of possibility washes over me. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “You aren’t a lumberjack by any chance, are you?” His eyes widen. “No.” Feeling foolish, I try to think of something to say that will make me seem less weird. I decide to go with, “Me neither.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Good to know. I hear it’s hard work.” I’m going to be single forever. While I claim to be fine with that outcome, I secretly want to find the man of my dreams, get married, have two point five children, and then adopt a Bernese Mountain puppy or three. The house in the suburbs and white picket fence are a given. Turning around, I continue to make my way off the train while chastising myself for being such an idiot. I step down to the ground before lugging my suitcase to my side. The gorgeous stranger is behind me, but he doesn’t stick around to continue our inane small talk. Instead, he veers to the right and exits the platform. I don’t move as quickly. I simply look around at my charming surroundings. There’s nothing like a small-town train station decorated for the holidays. The depot windows are strung with colored lights. The old-fashioned streetlamps lining the walkway are festooned with flocked wreaths, and Christmas carols are booming from the speakers against the side of the building. Laughingly, I tell myself, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Not that Chicago is at all comparable to Kansas, but a certain Wizard of Oz magic seems to have overtaken me. I appreciate my surroundings for long enough that by the time I turn around, I’m the only person left on the platform. The text I received from the Elk Lake Lodge said they would send a driver to pick me up. As such, I make my way through the depot to the other side of the building. The sidewalk is covered in fresh snow, so I’m careful to step into the footprints left by others. I look around for a van with the hotel’s name on it, but the only vehicle at the curb is a dark blue Suburban. Before I can approach it, a gaunt middle-aged man wearing a gray parka steps out. “Molly Anders?” I throw a hand up in the air and reply, “That’s me!” He walks over and takes possession of my suitcase before putting it in the back hatch. Then he opens the door for me. “Name’s Paul. You’re my last pickup which is good because we’re expecting more snow.” I’m glad I decided to come tonight and not wait until morning. Getting into the back of the truck, I’m greeted by a familiar face. “Hey, there.” It’s the hottie from the train. “Hey, hi. Fancy meeting you here.” The driver gets in and asks, “You two know each other?” Before I can answer, my seat mate explains, “We met on the train. Neither of us are lumberjacks.” Kill me now. 
GIVEAWAY! --
A Thousand Flying Things
-- EXCERPT: February 14, 1991 Piecewood Displaced Persons Camp Near Bor, Southern Sudan Dianna peeks through the smooth, worn canvas flap of her thatched hut. It’s only 30 days since she arrived. It might as well be 300. She pulls on a T-shirt and shorts for her daily run before the heat sets in. She runs no matter where she is. Here, the children, already awake, follow her. It’s a game to them. They’d never imagine her reason for it. She began running to maintain weight. Then, she ran to forget her past. Now, she runs to avoid thinking about her future. The endorphin rush is better than food, much better than romance. It’s a multi-purpose tool for boredom, anxiety, strategizing, or blotting out thought. These children mean everything to her because her presence in Africa is what she has left. She has a year to reach them. A year from now, most will join the fighting, or the dead. Reaching even one would be enough reward for the time spent in this restless, ragged heat. Reaching a few would be a miracle. Books are her only tool. Her eye catches a motion in her peripheral vision. At first, she jumps. It’s a crouching animal, a hyena, or worse. But no, it’s a tiny boy, no more than five. She’s about to stop and ask him why he’s here, but he disappears into the predawn shadows. She keeps running, but she asks another boy who he is. “Khalil,” the boy answers with a shrug. She’s certain now that her teaching is a diversion, that less than a kilometer away, these boys are being prepared to shoot rifles, even missiles. Biel is training them for his war and pretending to teach them to read. Yet perhaps she can save one or two lives. She must be careful how she presents it to the woman called Mirembe at the delegation. Without Biel’s approval of her mission here at camp, Dianna will be sent home. The government wants her here, but Biel, he’s forced to let her teach to receive U.N. aid. She suspects he’s using her as a ruse for more international fund- ing. A shiver courses down her back with drops of sweat. That afternoon, the boys straggle into the schoolroom, their mouths curving up when they see her, their dark eyes bright, their fingertips reaching into her pockets, searching for Life Savers or cigarettes she brought to make friends. They speak to her with their eyes instead of their mouths. Her suitcase full of bribes—piles of unboxed Marlboros—is almost empty. Her supposed students turn up their noses at anything, like a pencil, that they cannot inhale with their lungs or bellies. They are still a bit young to be sticking needles in their arms, but that too will come, once they see some action. She’s observed the dull eyes of teenaged soldiers-in-training too many times to imagine these bright-eyed boys’ futures would turn out otherwise. Young combatants are a tradition and necessity here. Sudan has had conflict, usually civil war, since the late 1950s, when the country claimed independence from Britain and Egypt. They’ve been fighting here as long as she’s been alive. The boy soldiers, only slightly older than the students, are starving for food but laden with pharmaceu- ticals. They march through wasted grassland covering oceans of untapped petroleum. All their fighting will never yield a drop for them. As she waits to begin, Dianna takes out an emery board, a vestige of home. Her nails are crooked and cracked from the heat, drawing water, and chopping weeds from around the doorway to her hut. Funny how its rough, sandy surface, which echoes this world but also reminds her of home, comforts her. Right, left, right, left, she files down the nails until she reaches the skin where the nail ends and the finger begins. She is filing when more children skip in, brandishing a knife, a rusty fishing hook, or a spent grenade. “What?” an almost-adolescent boy asks, peering at the strange stick in her hands. It’s the first time she’s seen him. Time and again, Dianna has explained. Time and again, the chil- dren fail to understand. “It’s a tool for my fingernails,” she tells him. “Need?” he asks, shaking his head, either mystified or judgmental. The children may learn to read before they learn the use of a mani- cure utensil. Yet still, she files. It is her statement of faith. Some boys don’t ever show. Dianna watches them performing their chores, eating their stewy, beany fu, preparing for nightfall, marching in formation. Still, these rations are infinitely better than the boiled leaves and grass they had before. They never meet her eye, and she knows not to push. They come to her only if their curiosity to learn overtakes their fear of their tribal leader Daniel Biel’s disapproval. These children owe everything, including their survival, to him. She’s been on the receiving end of Biel’s judgment and wouldn’t want to be in the path of his anger. It arrives without warning like a snake coiled under the brush. He’s not happy she’s here. The government forced this relationship, probably to meet some sort of educational quota. Countries with abuses of human rights and low literacy rates don’t receive much international aid. He wants money to fund the military he’s building that’s full of children, and he’s getting it by calling his training ground a language school. She’s little more than a babysitter. Biel’s a funny one. She can’t figure him out entirely. She’s seen him take time with each boy, ensuring they have enough to eat, that they are groomed, that they have moments of play in addition to work. He calls them his “little men.” They worship him, and so they fear getting close to her. She stretches, rolling her head to get out the kinks, rubs off the cold sweat, flicks away a minute, insistent insect. She wanders outside to see if anyone else is showing up and notices a flowering bush she can’t remember being there yesterday. She strolls over to smell its perfume. Bending over the plant, she expects a jasmine blossom’s gentle, white scent. Instead, thousands of swarming in- sects fly every which way. She backs up, shocked, trying to avoid them, batting them away from her face. What she thought were white petals are flapping wings that have eaten any bud that tried to appear. Things in the bush are never as simple as they appear. Impressions of people are even more deceptive. Like Biel. Maybe like Mirembe at the delegation, too. Even though she likes her, she can’t trust her. Today she’s reading from The Jungle Book, but none of them are listening. The few boys in front of her are exhausted before the day begins from yesterday’s hard work and training. They probably have little time in their day for fantasy stories with talking tigers and snakes. Nothing like their lives. Mowgli is Indian, and the story is implausible and sometimes racist. A colonialist wrote it over one hundred years ago. She sees Thon sneer each time she reads the label “Man Cub.” She should have thought to call him Mowgli throughout. Twenty years ago, when she was about Thon’s age, Dianna fell in love with this novel because of its foreignness, its animals, and its message, but it’s not what she should be reading aloud here. “This book was written a very long time ago, and it’s about a jungle, not Sudan,” she explains, her gaze fixed upon Thon. “Men are not animals,” the boy answers, picking at his front tooth with a blade of grain. She nods in agreement and puts down the book, but Alier protests. “I want to hear what happens to the boy!” “Shhhhh!” The entire room shushes him and shames him. His head hangs down. She looks around the room. “We call this story a fable. It’s meant to have a message. It’s not meant to be reality but to reflect reality. Shall I continue?” she asks no one in particular, least of all Alier, though he gives her a pleading glance. Chol rests his chin on his hands, almost asleep. Jok’s eyes wander around the room. Mabior comes up to her “desk,” made of two crates, and tries to dig into her pocket a second time. She hears the first threads rip from cloth. There, he’s ruined her jeans. “Stop it!” Dianna hisses at him and almost slaps his hand but catches herself. He’s just a child, and she can’t afford to make enemies here. She catches his eye. He’s laughing at her. She feels new sweat trickling down from her forehead to the wrinkled crow’s foot that’s getting deeper beside her left eye, to the nape of her neck to the bare part of her blistered shoulder. Abe, almost a teen, sucks on an unlit cigarette. She doesn’t allow them to smoke in her presence, even though she’s their dealer. At least she’s kept that much under her control. School is over for her as much as for them. They’ve been here almost an hour. She slams the book shut and drops it with a thud on her crates. After class, the boys play football with an ancient, deflated soccer ball. They use tent poles as goal posts and the younger boys as goalies. She brings her old Polaroid camera out. The boys drop their football and race toward this contraption, a camera from She lets the boys roam around the pile of dusty photos and moves back to the shade of the canopied “schoolroom.” Its stale air reminds her of her days in her North Carolina frame house, pre-air conditioning. As a girl, she lay in her four-poster, the air settling above her bed like a bubble too thick to prick. Moist but unyielding, it hovered as she lay in wait to leave that bedroom, that house, just as she is standing by to leave this place. She lets her thoughts unravel, barely noticing the boys at play. She is hard pressed to determine which makes her feel emptier. This “schoolroom” is not much more than a tent. On rainy days, they must retreat to the tiny cinderblock closet of books,which is even more stifling. At least in North Carolina, she could visit the library. Books could make her forget the heavy air, the heat electrifying her spine, her mother lying down in the next room, in her own sort of limbo. Books could even rid her of the pain of her monthly cycle or empty stomach when she was sent to her room without dinner. Reading’s more important than running. Reading is more import- ant than food. It fills the emptiness of this place when she longs for love and attention. Yet would words ever mean as much to these boys as they did to Dianna? Would they lay down their rifles to turn the pages of the books she provided? Her mind pushes against the languid heat that presses her into the earth, and her lungs try to take in more air. The smell of overused cooking oil, reminiscent of the many meals fried in it, cuts the air like a scythe. She longs for just one ice cube. That is when she sees a young child’s hand. The hand waves at her from behind a large nearby rock. Flat on top, nature’s idea of a throne, the stone hides the rest of the child’s body. The hand itself, though, is a work of art. It is a hand a hyena could tear off with one swift chomp. Tiny, ragged fingernails, dirt caked over hidden fingerprints, flies buzzing this way and that. Yet the wrist is another thing altogether. Smooth and shiny and strong. She takes up her Polaroid and begins snapping. The shutter clicks, and the photos whirl out until the film is gone. They fall at her feet, creating a small dust storm. The specks float suspended in the air, then rest one by one on the photos. She wants to wash his hands to see what lies beneath this grime, so she walks around the rock obscuring the body that owns this miniature man’s hand. It’s the boy from this morning. “Hello?” She wonders if he will understand even that simple greeting. “Hey,” he answers. Her eyes go wide. How does he know that word? Most boys know “hi” or “hello,” but seldom use it because she greets them in their own language. And this boy looks barely old enough to speak many words at all. “I teach myself book.” The boy smiles. “You help?” “Do you speak English?” Dianna fumbles in a mixture of English, Arabic, and Dinka. “Engoish.” The little boy smiles again, attempting to mimic her sounds. Then, he slaps her hand with his, reaches in her pocket, finds an English tea biscuit, and pops it whole into his mouth. “Tank.” Dianna laughs at the mispronunciation, wondering how long it took him to learn the sentence he greeted her with. Her heart is in her ears. She may have found her student. “Name?” she asks. “Ka. Leel,” he answers, sounding it out just as she did for him. She does not know if both words form his name, whether it is a varia- tion of some Nuer pronoun, or whether he has made it up himself. “You mean this name?” She writes it out for him in the sand, and he nods. “How do you know my name?” she asks. He doesn’t understand the question. He simply stares at her with a certain fascination. Biel must have mentioned her to some of the boys. That was a good sign. Khalil giggles, and his broad smile, still with its baby teeth, makes her want to hug him, but she doesn’t. It is possible he was plucked from his village before he even answered to the name his mother called him. Many of these boys were orphans, and still, others were sent away, pawning, they called it. They were lent to others so that they—and the rest of the family—would not starve. The official word was that they were child laborers. Yet turning over this practice to reveal its dirty underside showed a far grimmer picture: slaves, sex slaves, child soldiers. Sacrifices, yet sacrifices with the hope of a fuller belly, and fuller for the conscripts than for their parents. They walk hand in hand toward the canopy. They plop onto the ground, and he curls his elbow into her lap. Polaroid pictures look up at them through the earth like a faded carpet. Khalil picks up his image and squints. “Khalil?” he asks. “Khalil.” Dianna puts away her camera while smiling at his realization that he is the subject of the photograph. She chooses a book from a nearby stack, opens it to page one, and begins to read. As she mouths each word, he repeats it after her. He points at the detailed illustrations of leafy branches and curvy women in full skirts and stays. He points at the letters. Beatrix Potter’s bunnies and hedgehogs dance in a land of cobras and hippos. He’s interested in books! She wants to get to know him, help him succeed. She has just broken a professional and personal credo—never get close to anyone again, especially not a client or student. She smiles in dazed but sated wonder. She always thought it would be a tall, dark man walking through camp who posed the most risk to her heart. And here, this little boy has grabbed it with one sentence and a few fingers. She will give him a good washing, make sure he is free from parasites, give him a T-shirt and a book all his own. Tomorrow, she will speak to Biel. This boy could not possibly be old enough for military training. Khalil seems in awe of her classroom, the only one of its kind in the camp. He runs his hands over the wall and floor, and his deep-set, round eyes rove up and down again. People here at camp reside in thatched mud huts or sleep under flimsy tents. Many boys sleep in the open air. This “schoolhouse” has one cinderblock wall, though the other sides are open to the air. His delicate hands glide over each brick’s cold, rough surface, one by one, as though it were a sculpture. If he even knows what a sculpture is. She fills a vat with all the cold water they can haul, pours soap into it, and orders him in. Khalil is having none of it. He is not getting his uniform wet. He crouches in the corner, still all smiles, but head wagging from side to side, “No.” She hauls him in his strange uniform, which resembles ragged shorts and surgical scrubs more than fatigues, and dumps him into the vat. He couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, but he is arms and legs and sharp nails, flailing, no other sound. Then he is still as she pours the soapy water over him—and scrubs, scrubs his work-torn fingernails. He relaxes and blows bubbles. And gradually, the smooth, burnished skin shines through. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Marrying the Mechanic: A Small-Town Clean Romance
-- EXCERPT: “Have you talked to Tassie recently?” Deena asked as they headed out of town. “Last Sunday. She and the prince were on their way to dinner with one of his brothers.” Jace glanced over at Deena, who seemed to get prettier by the minute. “Why? Have you heard from her?” “Just a few texts and photos. She sent one yesterday of her and Eli with two of his grown nephews. They were heading to Paris for a festival.” Jace felt a prick of annoyance that Tassie kept Deena more updated on her travel plans than she did him. Then again, he couldn’t blame his sister. Most of their communication started and ended with him asking when she was coming home and reminders to be careful and safe and to not trust strangers. He probably sounded like a lame recording set to repeat. No wonder Tassie only called him once a week and rarely sent a text. It was his own fault for acting overbearing and no doubt coming off as angry, even if he was. Tassie wasn’t the one who’d stirred his ire. Most of that ferocity was directed at himself, with a substantial portion attributed to the stupid prince with the charming smile who had turned everything in Jace’s world upside down. Well, maybe not everything. Deena was her own kind of surprise. Jace had yet to decide if the changes in her were of the good or bad variety. A touch drew his gaze to where Deena’s hand rested on his forearm. He debated shaking it off or covering those long fingers with his own dirty paw. Instead of following either inclination, he focused on her sunglasses even though all he could distinguish was a reflection of himself. With his face red from the heat and too much time in the sun, compounded by his current embarrassment, it was a vision he didn’t really need to see. “Don’t beat yourself up if Tassie is doing her own thing,” Deena said with a note of encouragement in her smooth voice. “This is what she’s always wanted. What’s she’s dreamed about her entire life. All we need to do is be happy for her. Right?” “Right,” Jace said, although he’d rather offer a dozen reasons why Tassie was going to eventually come home with a broken heart. Her experiences with Eli were going to make it that much harder to live in Summer Creek when this … whatever was going on with his sister and the prince, came to an end. Deena’s eyebrow lifted above her sunglasses again, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. She refrained from commenting, though, and pulled a U-turn in the road, stopping behind his service rig. “Want me to wait for you to make sure you get it running?” she asked. “No. I won’t keep you longer than I already have, but thank you for the ride both ways. I appreciate it.” “No problem, Jace. Call if you can’t get it to start, and I’ll come get you.” He would rather chew glass than call Deena for help in his current frame of mind, but he swallowed down the refusal and nodded at her. “Thanks. Have fun at the baby shower.” “I intend to. Bye, Jace.” He hopped out, lifted the tools and creeper from the back, then let Cleo deliver a sloppy lick to his cheek. It was the closest he’d come to a kiss for a long, long time. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Vampires of the Black Oak
Goodreads / Bookbub / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE – Valerian St-Amand “So Valerian, tell me more about this witch you met this summer.” I watch him one cold December afternoon, sitting in a booth at the back the Serpent Maudit, his brother’s nightclub in Old-Montreal. The immortal invited me here for the interview, so I don’t see the cursed vampires he has hidden in the crypt of his sanctuary while they learn to contain their extreme blood hunger so that they can function in the human world without hurting anyone. Val shoots me a dark look. I see deep emotions raging in his gaze, quickly repressed. He still wears his heavy outdoor wool-coat, the dark curls of his hair brushing the fox fur collar. Every one of his movement is measured, from the way he levels his chin to look at me casually, to the calm touch that lay on his dog, a hefty chocolate Labrador sleeping with his head on his master’s lap, the animal’s body stretched on the leather bench next to Valerian. “Maisie Thibodeau,” he finally says, his voice hoarse. “She’s a real witch?” I ask. “Of the Coven of the White Holly. In the small town of Berwick Falls in Maine.” “Your brother Magnovald said you were taken by her,” I pointed. “The first time you saw her.” Valerian nodded then shrugged. “Maybe. But what does it matter?” “She’s coming here, to Montreal.” “Yeah. I know.” “So, what will you do about that?” “About her?” He let out a slow breath, his full lips a thin line. “Nothing. She’ll be here for Emmeline.” “You’re ex-girlfriend?” “The thorn in my side,” he said, lazily leaning back in his leather bench. “You don’t love Emmeline anymore.” He shakes his head, mixed emotions warring on his forehead. “I did once, I think. Over three hundred years ago, now.” “But you don’t anymore.” “She lost her soul. My fault.” “You wanted her to be immortal, like you.” “Yep.” He stretches his arm wider, pinning me under a smoldering gaze. His intensity hits me full force, but I persist. I want to know. “So you did love her.” “Look, Madame l’Auteur,” he shoots at me, as he leaned forcefully forward into the table between us. “Yes, I loved Emme, or at least I thought I did. I was eighteen. I turned her. And then she turned thousands. Vampires. There’s no stopping them. One mistake. And I now have to fix it.” “For eternity,” I say. “You’ve been atoning for that one mistake for centuries.” “I have.” He huffs and pats his dog’s flank with a calm and steady hand. The strong fingers dig into the deep brown fur while his dog raises trusty chocolate eyes at him. “And what about Maisie Thibodeau?” “I don’t know.” His gaze turns troubled. “I saw her only that one time at the parley between the Warlocks of the Black Oak, the Elders of the White Holly and us, Mont-Royal Immortals. She was on the fringe of the forest’s clearing, with the other witches.” “You didn’t talk to her?” “No. Just saw her. Couldn’t take my eyes of her. It’s like there was this strange connection between us. Seigneur! That flimsy summer dress she wore didn’t help either.” “And now she’s coming here?” “Yes. Diesel Stanford of the Warlocks wants Maisie to watch over Emme. To make sure she won’t hurt anyone. I have no choice. I don’t want an all-out war between the warlocks, the witches and the vampires.” “So where does that leave you with Maisie?” “There is no ‘with her’ happening. I’m not having another relationship. Too risky. And, she’s mortal.” “I see. So how will you cope with her living at the Sanctuaire? Both of you under the same roof?” “No idea.” He sneers. “I guess we’ll find out.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Bowling Bodies at Spare Lanes Alley
-- EXCERPT: “What crazy weather! I’ve been running all over town in this icy rain!” Della shivered as she hurried through the door of Babe’s House of Caffeine and toward the Whoopee’s regular table. “Mother Nature must think it’s March, not October.” Francy grinned and pulled out the chair between her and Lainey. “Sit down and dry out. Mom’s running a bit late, too.” “Are you still trying to figure out a costume for the bowling fundraiser?” Lainey asked. “I think I’ve decided on mine!” “Didn’t Francy tell you? We’re going as the Blues Brothers!” I’m Jake and she’s Elwood.” She leaned closer to Lainey and, looking at Francy, pretended to whisper. “She’s jealous of my dancing abilities!” “Absolutely not!” Francy smirked. “I have dance moves that make Elwood look like a beginner!” She stood up, pushed her chair from the table, and began stomping her feet, shaking, and wiggling her body, waving her hands in the air while shouting ‘Hallelujah’! Everyone in the cafe laughed. Some clapped and chanted, “Go Francy. Go Francy. Go Francy.” “Okay, okay! You can dance, but I’m still the lead singer,” Della chuckled. Francy stopped, turned to the cafe patrons, and took a bow while they applauded. She pretended to blow kisses to thank them, then turned to sit down at the table again. “Whew! That’s hard work. I should have done more of Mom’s ‘Sweating to the Oldies’ workout videos!” she said breathlessly. “I’m going to need a large Caramel Macchiato.” 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
Archives
December 2024
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
