#Book Blitz #Phantom Fire (Winged Warriors 1) by Delta James #Paranormal Romance @Xpresso Book Tours22/8/2023
Phantom Fire
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Along about dusk, she had her usual campsite within reach. As she rounded the corner, she realized it was in use. The woman emerging out of the bright orange tent smiled as she spotted Kessily and raised her hand. “Hello, sister,” she called. She was dressed in jeans and a pretty sweater with Native American-inspired artwork intricately woven into the sweater. Her jeans were tucked into traditional moccasins instead of hiking boots. Kessily looked all around her to see to whom the woman was referring. The woman laughed. “Yes, I mean you. I’ve been waiting for you.” “You have? Do we know each other?” Kessily asked as she reached into her pocket for the bear spray—if it could drop a grizzly, surely it could drop a medium-sized female. “There is no need for violence or confusion. I am known as She Who Listens.” “What do you listen to?” asked Kessily. “To all the living things. They speak to me.” Curious, Kessily moved closer. “What do they tell you?” “Many things. For instance, they say you are on a great quest.” Kessily smiled and approached her. There didn’t seem to be any reason not to. “I’m hiking up to the Cauldron of Fire.” “Ah, it is the dragon you seek. He searches for you, as well.” Okay, so the woman is a little bit crackers. Perhaps I’ll move along and hope she doesn’t follow. “You think I’m not right in the head, but I am. There is a reason you feel at peace when you are within sight of the Cauldron. It is because he is there and has been waiting. He will come to you and you will bear his child.” “I’m not quite sure how to tell you this,” Kessily said, politely, “but it is next to impossible for me to get pregnant. I have something called PCOS. It will prevent me from ever having children.” “Dragon seed is strong. I can prove to you that what I say is true.” “Short of producing a dragon, I don’t think that’s possible. But you have yourself a nice day.” Kessily turned to leave, and she heard the woman scurrying back into her tent. She didn’t think anything good could come of that. She picked up her pace and began to put as much distance between herself and the mad woman as she possibly could. When the sound of the woman exiting her tent and starting after her reached her ears, Kessily broke into a run. “Wait, sister! I mean you no harm,” the woman said as her hand closed around Kessily’s upper arm and spun her around. In her hands was a large deck of ornate cards. “Pick one.” “No, thanks. I have friends waiting and want to get to them before they start to worry.” The woman frowned and shook her head. “No, you don’t. There is no one who waits for you. Pick a card. Listen to the message the gods send to you, and I will leave you in peace. I am nothing more than their messenger. When you have listened, I will go.” The woman held out the deck of cards, and hesitantly Kessily started to pick one but glanced at the woman’s face to see if there was any indication that she wanted her to pick a specific card. There was nothing. This woman would be hard to beat in a poker game. Her expression showed no emotion whatsoever. “Pick.” Kessily withdrew a card and handed it to the woman, who smiled. “You chose the silver dragon of imagination, possibility, and self-discovery.” Looking at the card, all Kessily could see was a silver dragon flying high over the peaks of a set of mountains that looked oddly familiar. The sky above it was midnight blue with shining stars that cast their light on the snow-capped peaks. “What are you trying to tell me?” Kessily asked. “It is not I who speaks to you, but the dragon lord who will claim you. I wish you well, sister.” The woman turned around and returned to her campsite. Wanting to put as much distance between them as possible, Kessily headed up the trail at a fast pace—just short of running. What a nut job. Nice enough, but clearly not quite right in the head.
GIVEAWAY! The Immortal Tailor
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks -- EXCERPT: All the creatures in the story are constantly getting up in Damien’s grill! No boundaries! It drives him nuts. Here’s the best, and funniest example. Pet crinkled her nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You were touching me while I slept!” “Nope. I was in your closet playing with your underwear. They needed more holes.” She popped something in her mouth and chewed. She was eating his boxers? “If it was not you, then who?” he growled. Damien looked in the same direction. Nothing there. “Are you…are you speaking to Sky?” he asked Pet. Pet nodded. “She said she just watched you jerk yourself off in your sleep. She thought it was hot.” “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Both of you!” he yelled. “Gorgon-what?” “The demon you rescued.” Pet pointed to a lump under the covers at the bottom of his bed.
GIVEAWAY! Wicked Desires
-- EXCERPT: It’s three forty-five and the four of us down a shot, just one. Benji’s approved this, so fuck what the record company says. We do shots before every show. It’s part of our pre-show routine, and no matter what anyone says, that is not going to change…ever. I usually like to have a quick fuck before I go onstage, but unfortunately, that isn’t happening here. We are standing in the middle of Times Square with just a curtain separating us from the crowd. I’m not shy, and the guys have seen me fuck women a million times before, so it wouldn’t bother me or them, and there is no shortage of women who would be happy to accommodate me, but I promised Benji I would behave. Aside from the shot I just did, I also haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since I left the bar with Tommy yesterday afternoon, and as far as I can tell, neither has Dylan or Shawn. Tommy is on something, but he’s not going to be a problem. He always holds his own onstage and has never let us down. He’ll be okay. We just need to get through three songs and then we are out of here. We step onto the makeshift stage that was erected only a few hours ago. There are no bells and whistles, just the bare bones we need to get the job done. Dylan is standing on one side of me, and Shawn is on the other. Tommy takes up the rear, behind his kit. Someone out front is speaking to the crowd, and then my heart rate kicks up with a familiar rush when I hear, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a real treat this afternoon. Get ready for Ruin!” The crowd goes crazy. Tommy counts us down, and we start to play just as the curtain rises in front of us. We crush the first two songs, and the crowd continues to grow. There are a shit ton of security around us, along with police on horseback, keeping the crowd under control. Things could go sideways in a heartbeat, but that’s not our concern. We are here to perform, and that’s exactly what we do—we are killing it. There’s not a lot of room up here on this tiny stage. I like to move around, but I’m limited to a few feet in any direction, so I focus on the crowd instead. We slow things down for the third and final song. I’m singing one of our biggest hits. It’s about a dark-haired, green-eyed girl who steals hearts and never gives them back. I look out over the crowd and my heart almost fucking stops when I see her. She’s fucking gorgeous. The auburn highlights in her long dark hair shine in the sun, and she has the biggest green eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s the fucking girl in my song and I can’t take my goddamn eyes off her. She is so close, I feel like I can almost reach out and touch her, and her eyes are riveted on me. I smile and point at her. She slaps her hand over her heart, and then points right back at me as she flashes me a megawatt smile in return. I feel like I’ve been hit by a lightning bolt as electricity zings between us. I force myself to move on, to give my attention to the rest of the crowd, but I can’t seem to stop my eyes from returning to the green-eyed girl. To me, one girl is as good as the next, but fuck, there’s just something about her. The song comes to an end, and the curtain drops as soon as the last chord dies off, blocking any chance I might have had to find out who she is. I’ve never, ever regretted the end of a song as much as I do in this moment. I don’t know what the hell it is that I’m feeling, but I can’t let it go. The need to find out who she is, is overwhelming. I jump off the stage and pull the curtain aside. My eyes zero in on the spot where she was sitting, but she’s not there, and my heart sinks. I frantically look around, trying to find her. Where the fuck did she go? There are literally hundreds of people moving around out there. She could be anywhere in that crowd. I narrow my eyes as they skim over the crowd, I search for a couple more seconds before I give up and drop the curtain. She’s not there. I need to forget about her and move on—but my mind refuses to let it go. Who is she? How can I find her? She was only on my radar for the length of a single song, but somehow, she’s managed to get under my skin. That never happens. The need to know what it is about her that is different from all the rest is overwhelming.
GIVEAWAY! Mr. Right is a Myth
-- EXCERPT: “I’m going to the bathroom. Have fun deciding who gets the piece of man meat.” I finish what’s left of my virgin daiquiri – virgin, what a laugh – and pick up my purse. “If I’m not back in 10 minutes, you know I fell in.” My experience with Jesse forced me to add more things to my list of criteria to avoid in men, and my list grows longer with every ex. When I told Mom over the summer what I’m looking for in a man, she (ignorant of my history) said I’m too picky, whereas Vanessa wasn’t picky enough. I’ll end up bitter and alone, Mom said, while my sister is happily married, playing mommy. I have stretches where I’m in a relationship and intervals where I’m single. For someone to be in my life long-term, he and I need to be partners, equals, a power couple. But how do I find a guy like that? And who would want to be my partner for life anyway? My family says I’m too stubborn, too opinionated, too independent, wear too much black and too much makeup. Not exactly the sort a man commits to. I follow a waitress’ directions to the back of the club where young women – some dressed sexy, others casually like my friends and me – stream in and out of the restroom. I wonder how many of these chicks are in partnerships and how many are in relationships where the man wields the upper hand. I want a partnership, damn it! I’m so engrossed in thought I don’t notice a guy standing by the last table before the restrooms taking a step backward until he bumps into me. Losing my balance, I wobble. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, placing his hand briefly on my arm. “I hope you’re okay. I didn’t step on your foot, did I?” Holy shit! This guy is tall, fit and blond. Now that’s what I consider God’s gift to women. I smile and shake my head. “No, I’m okay. Don’t sweat it.” He nods and turns back to his friends.
GIVEAWAY! Castles & Cauldrons
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: AlexandraEarl Dagon was chasing me. I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear him, his heavy footsteps were closing in on me. My breath quickened as I slipped in and out of the dark corners of Castle Dagon, desperately trying to find a place to hide. I could almost feel his breath, hot and putrid, as he huffed and puffed with the pace of his footsteps. His voice, a thought floating through my own mind. “You can’t hide from me, Evelyn. I know you’re here. I will find you, my darling. You will be mine again.” I opened my mouth to scream “No!” but nothing came. Chilly spikes of fear stabbed every part of me. I lunged forward, into another dark corner, heading toward the castle door. The Earl, hearing me, quickly shifted, and closed in on me once again. Every step I took felt like running through sludge. My feet, heavy with fear and tired from running, threatened to fail me before reaching the door. I pulled every ounce of energy from my being and prepared to take the final lunge, from the darkness to the door, only a few short steps away. I pulled back, like a cat about to pounce, and, with heavy legs, leaped forward, willing the voluminous sludge to release my feet. I lunged for the door. Earl Dagon snarled his footsteps right behind me. A large, clammy hand clasped around my neck, forcing me back, then spinning me around, toppling me to the ground… I woke up when I hit the floor. Relief flooded my body as I looked around, recognizing my bedroom. I was wrapped in a burrito of blankets and sheets, laying on the floor. Sticky sweat dampened the sheets and my hair, now clinging to my face and wrapped around my neck…like a large hand, choking me. It was a dream. A really terrible, awful, very bad dream. They were coming more frequently now. Since my daring jaunt to Castle Dragon in an effort to get a peek at an ancient book sequestered under lock and key in the library. Blackjack and I had taken a wee nap in an off-tour bedroom waiting for everyone to skedaddle. I had my first dream of the Earl then. He seemed to be mistaking me for ‘his’ Evelyn of Cumbria – the witch he professed to love, who broke his heart and ended up buying on the castle pyre. The Earl Dagon wasn’t after me. He wasn’t even alive. He was a piece of my history, my ancestry long since dead. Thank the Goddess. Blackjack sauntered into the room as I attempted to free my arms from their tangled position. He jumped up on my chest and sat. “Havin’ some troubles, woman?” My familiar’s silky voice floated through my mind. “A bad dream, Blackjack.” Blackjack lay where he sat, curling his paws under his chest. “I heard a thump. Did you fall off the bed? Or have you taken to sleeping on the floor?” I peered at him, my arms still trapped in the blankets, gobs of hair masking my face. “I fell off the bed, you goober.” “Oh, what fun.” Blackjack’s emerald green eyes, a match to my own, glistened. “You should probably get off the dusty floor. You’re not the best housekeeper, you know. Your dust bunnies have dust bunnies,” he proceeded to pull out a paw and lick it. “Ever so helpful, as always, you mangy brat.”
GIVEAWAY! The Worst Darcy
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: Cuppabeans was the only cafe in town, a cute little corner shop with a mint green and white striped awning out front, knotty pine framing inside, and a constant, thick miasma of warm, rich Arabica beans in the air. Inhaling deeply as I stood in line, I tapped my foot and checked the time. It was fine. I still had a good cushion to get this done before I had to be at the library. I reached the front and ordered the largest size they had. “Name?” the perky teenage server called over the morning din. “Vivian,” I said. “Lydia?” she asked. I emphasized each syllable so she could at least read my lips. “Vivian.” She nodded in a way that made my hopes plummet. I crossed my arms and stepped to the side to let the next person up. I blinked as I saw the man who’d stood behind me. He wore black head to toe, including a thick pair of leather cuffs at his wrists, the dark shade contrasting with his fair skin. The only hint of colour on him popped from the tattoos covering his forearms and the wheat blond of his overlong hair. He left his black aviators on as he put in his order and came to stand beside me, crossing one long leg over the other as he leaned back against the wall. I watched him in the mirror on the opposite side of the cafe. He crossed his arms and appeared generally standoffish, the sharp line of his jaw ticking as he clenched it. I watched the muscle move as discreetly as I could. By the look of him, he was hardly a Prince Charming candidate, but I could still appreciate a nice jawline. I was only human, after all. But then a smirk kicked up one corner of his mouth and he tipped his sunglasses down, revealing that his eyes were locked on mine in the mirror. My heart squeezed in surprise. Not only from the frantic feeling of being caught staring, but the shock of how incongruously dark brown his eyes were against that hair, stark in his only slightly sun-kissed face. They tilted up slightly at the outer corners, reminding me of a cat. He nudged the shades off his face and turned to me with a matching feline languor. I flicked my eyes to the ground, face flaring with heat. “Don’t like tattoos?” he asked, his voice a slightly gravelly tenor. By that grungy, heavy metal look, he’d probably spent his life screaming into a microphone. “I wasn’t looking at your tattoos,” I said with a sharp shake of my head. Hopefully, my neck wasn’t going blotchy with embarrassment. “Yeah?” he asked. In my periphery, I saw him lean closer. “What were you lookin’ at?” I threw a desperate glance at the server and she held a cup up with a nod. Relief flooded me as I grabbed it and pivoted on my heel to escape this awkward encounter. But as I passed the man, I faltered, frowning down at the cup. It read Vanilla. “Oh, come on,” I grumbled under my breath. A snort drew my eyes back up to the man. His dark eyes sparked with a mocking amusement. “Hey, at least she got the V right.” I rolled my eyes and marched past him, ignoring the snicker that followed me out the door.
GIVEAWAY! #Book Blitz #A Hospital in the Clouds by Mhairead MacLeod #Historical Romance @Xpresso Book Tours5/8/2023
A Hospital in the Clouds
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo -- EXCERPT: When I saw Tom Austen that March morning of 1918, I knew there was something about him I recognised, something shared. It was in his expression as he let me dress his foot, rotten and black around stumps of cartilage where his toes had been surgically removed. He held in the pain, hissing through clenched teeth. I drew the screen and squeezed a fresh cloth into a warm basin of water. ‘Here, Lieutenant Austen, I’ll help you off with your things.’ His shirt was damp with sweat, his pants soaked with urine. ‘How lucky am I, eh? Shelled with phosgene. Didn’t realise what was happening. Thought I’d landed back home in a vat of newly picked corn – that’s what it smelt like. Didn’t feel it at first, then couldn’t breathe for the life of me. Crawled around, found my gas mask. Got patched up and sent back. Took another hiding from Fritz. Now this bloody trench foot.’ He made his butchering sound like a jaunty boy’s adventure, but I knew the truth. One night when the other men were asleep, I had found him, drawn back into that dark underworld, his body curled into a tight ball, his shoulders shaking. A fly crawled over the bed, attracted by the rot that even disinfectant swabs couldn’t wash out. I flicked it away. ‘Your lungs are healing, Lieutenant. Our tropical weather will help. And you will get better, you hear?’ There was a liver-coloured wound at his neck, fading into scar tissue. At first, I suspected shrapnel damage, but when I looked closer, it resembled the more rounded scar of a bullet. ‘How did you get that?’ He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. So, don’t say it.’ ‘Say what?’ It was supposed to be a quick wipe down before I changed the basin and cloths for the next patient, but I slowed the process a little, the water wringing and splashing, sponging and soothing the pale landscape of violence. I patted dry the tattooed profile on his bicep. ‘She’s a pretty one. With her dark blue hair flying around.’ ‘On leave with the battalion when I had that done. Got myself blotto. Didn’t have a girl to write home to, so I thought I’d carry one in my arms.’ He gave a chuckle then coughed again. ‘It’s just not the sort of thing … an officer is supposed to do. Is it, nurse?’ I guessed a warning about STDs would embarrass him, especially from someone his own age, and he’d probably have heard the standard lecture many times. Instead, I said with a smile, ‘You’d know how to set a good example, then.’
GIVEAWAY! The Control
Get it FREE on Kindle Unlimited! -- EXCERPT: With two fingers, I lift Mooken’s icy hand from the keyboard, treating it like a disgusting bug I have to touch. I’ve watched enough television shows and read enough mysteries to know better than to disturb a dead body. But I need the letters on his screen to stop. They remind me too much of how Mooken used to make his awkward hmmm sounds in the middle of his lectures when pondering a point his students weren’t getting. Being this close to a dead person, my body revolts at the heavy cocktail of copper, feces, and urine in the room—a combination I’ve never encountered before. Well, once before. But that was so long ago I sometimes wonder if it wasn’t another one of my nightmares. But my stomach tells me the scene in front of me is real. My guts convulse and threaten to spew everything from inside of me, and I swallow hard, choking back my sickness…barely. I bury my nose in my sleeve, breathing through my mouth. Other than the shallow in-and-out of my air, the room is quiet. Inside my head, however, things are very loud. Along with the loud buzzing, my father is telling me to run. Leave now and save yourself, boy. Before they blame you for all of this. I ignore him and stare down at Mooken. After five minutes, his screen starts to fade to black, but I move the mouse, and the screen returns to full brightness. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm I lean over my professor’s body like I’m showing a dead man something he might find interesting. I hold the mouse lightly in my hand and scroll up. There are so many pages of mmmms that the document appears to stand still as I scroll. I climb through a hundred pages of that single, lonely letter before I make it to the substance of the file and slow down to skim its contents. I scan blocks of Mooken’s text, reading snippets from the bottom up. classic signs… early schizophrenia… chronic sleep deprivation… acute depression… disruptions in personal affairs… My head throbs as I continue further up the document. delusions… romantic interest… auditory and visual hallucinations… sleep paralysis… irrational anger and suspicion toward therapist… potential for extreme violence… formal evaluation recommended… I speed to the very top of the document to see who Mooken was evaluating, and my stomach freezes when I read my name. Jim Straub. But this can’t be. I didn’t kill the professor. I know this for certain. Professor Mooken was my teacher and trying to help me. That must be why I came here tonight—to get his help. Not to kill him. The delete key stares at me, cooing, tempting me to erase my name—to fix this. But I can’t do that—not yet, at least. I disable Mooken’s screen saver, stagger to the other side of his desk, and sink back into the leather chair. When I check the clock on the wall, fifteen minutes have passed. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and on reflex, I check it. As happens so often lately, it’s a missed call from my father, who suffers from dementia and calls and texts daily. I love and miss my dad, but I can’t deal with him and his altered, severe personality right now. My present situation is too dire, although there are still a few hours before other professors and students begin entering the building to start their days. I squeeze my eyes shut to help me remember the events that led me here, but when I do, I hear my father giving me advice again, yelling at me, ordering me. Leave. “Not yet,” I say through clenched teeth. “I need to remember what happened first.”
GIVEAWAY! Feeling Ballsy
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Our gazes split as I pretend to stretch my neck, crinkling the melting bag of ice, and severing a replay of the moment at the fire pit we both refuse to acknowledge. He leans in, and a tiny giggle flutters up my chest and out through my lips. “What?” He asks, pulling his torso back, his voice squeaking high. “Does my breath smell?” Furrowing his brow, he huffs into his palm. With a deep sniff, he shakes his head. I swallow down a larger chuckle. He looks over my shoulder as he bites his lower lip. Do what happened the other night. It’s simple. I cough to cover another laugh and clear my throat. “Let’s try again.” Hawk crosses his arms and tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Are you going to laugh at me again?” I shake my head. “No?” Maybe. “Well, that’s so convincing.” His voice hits a puberty high crack. “It’s only me.” I nod and take in a deep breath. It’s only me? Does he realize what that even means? There is no one I trust more than him. Despite that, this is still new territory. There’s this tiny nag in me throwing up blocks, worried about being tossed aside when he’s bored of me. My lips part and hover close enough to feel the gentle exhale of air from his mouth. I peek open an eye to find he’s staring back at me. Another obnoxiously loud laugh erupts from my mouth, and a pang of worry seizes my heart. I suck in my lips and bite down as I open my eyes. Well, crap. He looks so … confused? “You’re not okay with this, are you?” He scratches at his cheek and glances down. The bag of ice drips on my shirt and ceases the trembling tickle in my chest. “It’s not that. It’s every time I see your face I laugh.” “I’m that horrible looking to you?” His tone suggests a joke, but one drenched in a heavy ouch. “Shut up. You know you aren’t ugly.” I shake my head. “True. I’m in the realm of hideous.” He flashes a wide grin and runs his tongue over his lips. “Would a bag over my head with lip holes help?” “You. Are. Ridiculous.” He covers his face with wide fingers. “Better?” “Stop making fun.” All I want to do is see if the fire pit was a fluke, and forget all the other nonsense. Instead, I can’t stop giggling like I’ve never been with someone before. I lean in, kiss the back of his hand, and lean back. “Oh, baby.” He rolls his eyes back, pulls his hands down his cheeks, and lets out a groan. “This. This is why it’s weird.” A full belly laugh pulls through, filling the air. “You’re, you.” Knowing it’s him kissing me is different from seeing him kiss me. When the structured lines of his face get close, my nerves flare a warning and a protective shyness takes over. “Wildflower, I only want to kiss you. I need to kiss you.” His hands land at his sides with an exaggerated smack and his tone shifts to serious. “Do you actually want to do this?” The way he says “Wildflower” melts me. I nod repeatedly and pout my bottom lip. My chest holds the tingles, the desire, the pull to him. “I don’t know what’s happening. It’s like each time we get near, one of our magnets flips over, shooting us far apart.” “Oh. Talk dirty to me with science. Two poles of a magnet repelling.” He leans back and gives an approving nod. The issue isn’t the repelling, it’s the pull. The thing I’m stuck on from the night we kissed is, he kissed me. He scrambled the natural balance of our friendship, messing with the normally clear division line. We crossed into the unknown and he was burned. Literally. I don’t want to get burned or set our friendship ablaze in a grand bonfire. And yet, I want to be kissed—by him. None of this is logical.
GIVEAWAY!
Enter to win one of three paperback copies of Feeling Ballsy!
To enter, people need to follow @beckerixsonauthor, RT, and comment using the hashtags #feelingballsy AND #loveisawkward between 7/28/2023 and 8/8/2023!
The Ring Academy: The Trials of Imogene Sol
-- EXCERPT: Imogene raced across the room to grab the bo staff leaning against the wall, her opponent just steps behind her. The zip of his staff buzzed the air near her head as she ducked, rolled across the mat, and grabbed the weapon she needed from the holder. She turned and crouched with her back to the wall, wielding her staff to block her attacker. The clack of his weapon against hers vibrated up her arm through her elbow, jarring her teeth, but she ignored the discomfort—she was used to it—and shot forward. “That’s all you’ve got?” She smirked at her opponent. Vempur growled, showing his sharp incisors. His stark, black hair curled against his umber-toned temple slick with sweat as he followed it up by stabbing the end of the staff toward her face. His eyes, usually green flecked with sparkles of gold, turned completely black as he swung. She blocked and went for a jab. Vempur parried, then swung the staff at her head, once more with a loud grunt and frustrated huff. “You’re too quick,” he snapped. Imogene smiled at her best friend but subdued the laugh. She knew he wouldn’t take it well in the middle of a fight. Not with everyone watching. Their silent, judgmental gazes were enough of a deterrent to keep Vempur’s temper in check. Besides, she wouldn’t have appreciated his humor at the moment either. There was too much on the line. “You’re stronger. Taller,” she grunted out as she ducked once more. It wasn’t to feed his ego. “Find my weakness.” “What weakness?” he snapped, frustrated more with himself than her, it would seem. “You haven’t lost yet today.” “Exactly. I’m tired.” Vempur growled, surging forward. But she couldn’t afford to lose and that was the difference. She rocked back, arching as the staff narrowly missed her gut, then swung her stick out to catch Vempur’s feet. He jumped and brought his bow down to the mat barely missing her back as she rolled out from under his strike. “Stars!” Halo Mins—their instructor—yelled across the sparring room. “It shouldn’t look like a dance. It should look like a fight!” Several of the other Year Sevens in the room snickered, and she knew it was at their expense. “Shit,” Imogene swore, resetting as she hopped away. “He’s going to knock me down.” “He won’t. He can’t.” Vempur punched out, and Imogene blocked the weapon. They pushed against one another and locked, resting for a beat. “You’ve dominated everyone today.” “Not everyone.” She pushed, using her momentum to twist and swing, the pole wide, catching Vempur’s ankles. His giant frame slammed against the mat, and she went in for the kill, feigning a stab into his throat. Vempur opened his hands against his bow staff in supplication and frowned. “Everyone knows you belong on the leaderboard, Imogene.”
GIVEAWAY! |
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