#Book Blitz #East of Everywhere by Susan Pogorzelski #Coming of Age #YA @Xpresso Book Tours19/12/2021
East of Everywhere
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo -- EXCERPT: “Are you Alex?” “That’s me.” He nodded towards the boxcar. “And that’s me home you’re in.” “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Sabina told me to find you and—” Janie stepped onto the concrete blocks, her foot catching the edge. The odd angle and her weight made them shift and begin to wobble. Her pulse quickened as she fought to keep her balance, her hands grasping at the air. She tumbled to the ground, sprawled across the weeds and dirt. “Well,” Alex said above her. “Now you broke me stairs.” Unwilling tears pooled in her eyes and her cheeks grew hot as a sharp, burning pain pierced her palms. She winced and stood slowly, trying to brush away the stray gravel that clung to the bits of blood streaking her hands and knees. She took a step back, stumbling over the railroad ties. Alex reached out to steady her, then took her hand and turned it over. His touch was surprisingly hesitant and gentle. “Cut yourself on the landing there.” He dropped her hand and began walking towards the platform. “Come on, then.” Janie brushed at her eyes with the back of her hands and followed after him. Step one, she reminded herself. Focus. “I can do it myself—the window, I mean,” she called after him. “She wanted you to fix it, but I can do it myself…” Her voice trailed off as she watched him lean his hands on the platform and hoist himself up. She raised her eyebrows at him, annoyed. A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head towards his left. “Stairs are over there.” Janie glared at him and stalked towards the other end of the platform. “It’s just that Sabina said she has a list for you—a list of things she needs fixed.” “Seems those hands need fixing first.” She followed him inside, past the remnants of the motorbike and broken benches and the ticket counter where flyers still advertised roundtrips to the city. They walked down a short corridor until they reached a bathroom that had lost its door. Faded writing was scrawled across broken green and white tile, and the mirror above the sink was spotted with dark water stains. Alex pulled his striped shirt over his head and pushed up the sleeves, then ran the tap and stuck his hand beneath the steady stream to check the temperature. Wordlessly, he reached for her—more gently than she was expecting—and before she could protest, he was guiding her hands beneath the lukewarm water. She jumped back and hissed at the sting, but he held on. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he said quietly. A blush crept into her cheeks as he ran his thumbs along the scratches, easing the dirt free from the cuts. She glanced up at his reflection in the mirror, studying the way his hair hung across his forehead, the way the dimple just beneath his cheek deepened when he clenched his jaw, the way he tilted his head, his deep brown eyes roaming across her hands as he tended to her. He was so different from Leo… She drew in a short intake of breath and jerked her hands away. Alex glanced at her, eyes narrowed in brief confusion, then pulled back and tossed the towel that was draped across his shoulder onto the sink next to her. He leaned against the doorway, folding his arms across his chest as he watched her run a small section of the towel beneath the water and dab at her hands. “Is that your motorbike out there?” she asked. She leaned down to brush stray bits of pebble from her pants where dirt stains had already set in. “Yep.” “What are you doing to it?” “Fixing it up. So I can be on me way.” “So, you’re not from here?” “What gave it away, the boxcar or me accent?” Janie felt herself relax and returned his smile. “I’m just traveling,” he said. “Same as you.” She looked up sharply but didn’t say anything. She turned off the faucet and set the stained towel down on the edge of the sink. “Guess we better go and see about that window.” He reached over and grabbed the towel. “What’s your name then?” “It’s Janie,” she said, following him out of the bathroom and into the main room. “Janie.” He said the word like he was testing it. He tossed the towel onto a broken bench and crouched down near his motorbike to gather his tools. “You sure that’s your name?” She regretted coming here instantly—here to this derelict train station, to the boarding house with her very own room, to this town with its sense of safety and relief and friendship. She’d overstayed her welcome; she should have moved on days ago. She’d have to leave eventually, anyway—she knew that. She was only there until she could make enough money to get herself home to Anthers Hall. She didn’t belong to this town, not really. This wasn’t forever. But the thought ripped through her, clutched at her heart until it took her breath away. She didn’t want to leave—not this town, not these people, not when she finally found a place she could actually belong, at least, for a little while. Not because of him and how from the moment they’d met just a few moments ago he seemed to see right through her. She grit her teeth. “I know my own name.” “And I know when something’s not the whole truth.” 
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Heart of the Impaler
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My thoughts:
I'm always interested in discovering new authors and Alexander Delacroix is definitely one to watch out for. His debut novel Heart of the Impaler sets out to explore the dark, dark world of Vlad Dracul's Wallachia and Transylvania before this notorius historical character came into power. I loved the premise and really enjoyed delving into the emotional side of Vlad's descent into his madness. Some readers hate love triangles, but the truth is they do make excellent plots and allow the author explore the characters' complex feelings-jealousy, loyalty, gratitude, embarrassment, confusion...In Heart of the Impaler we're thrown into this emotional landscape from the word go, when we meet Ilona Csaki, the elder daughter of an impoverished Transylvanian noble, as she is observing an impromptu sword fight between Vlad,, the younger son of the great Vojvode, and his cousin Andrej, and the battle for Ilona's heart begins. Ilona might come across as slightly passive, limited in her autonomy and decision making, but this rings true to the historic reality of the role of women who were forced to stay behind the scenes. It is obvious that the author did a lot of research and added lots of details to help the reader imagine what life was like in this historical period, but my favourite part is the evolution of Vlad's character (after all, wasn't this why I picked up the book?) from a confused second in the line, 'a spare' to his elder brother Mircea into the power hungry, ruthless politician and ruler the whole world has heard about. Overall, Heart of the Impaler is an interesting debut and I would really like to read more from this author in future. Thank you to Giselle from Xpresso Book Tours, Netgalley and the publisher for the review copy, provided in exchange for an honest opinion. 
Type X
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: A heavy wind slams into the side of the helicopter, jerking the metal carcass with rough, repetitive jolts, which threaten to send the gargantuan carrier aircraft spiraling to the ground. The two dozen Enforcers around me don’t seem to take much notice of the turbulence, their expressions drawn, eyes fixed straight ahead, like robots that have been programmed to concentrate only on the specified task laid out before us. Propping my head back against the vibrating wall, I focus on the roaring drone of the rotors, listening intently to the constant whir. Steadied by the deafening hum, I drag in a deep breath and let my eyes drift closed, my heart rate evening out as I distance my thoughts from what awaits when we land. More than anything, I wish my consciousness could remain in this state of calm in-between forever. Here, reality is but a dim afterthought. Unfortunately, such blissful escape isn’t an option. I push out an exasperated breath through my nose and peek open my eyes, scowling at the tingle creeping over my face. Even without looking, I can tell someone’s watching me. The burning touch of wandering eyes is a far too familiar sensation by this point—that unavoidable curiosity that seems to go hand in hand with what I am now that my existence is public knowledge. Hell, after this long, I’ve grown to expect it. Looking up, I narrow my eyes into slits, glaring at the Enforcer strapped in the seat directly across from me. He doesn’t glance away, which intrigues me considering how skittish others tend to become in my presence. Especially the newer recruits who have only heard stories of my unfathomable power. Based on this particular soldier’s appearance, I’d be willing to venture a guess and wager he’s barely older than me. Perhaps we’re even the same age, although twenty is unusually young for an Enforcer. Then again, the State is at war. The rules for registration have likely been eased to help expand our ranks for the battles ahead. If only these soldiers knew how little their presence in this war even matters. Typically, registration age begins at twenty-five, so the person in question has to work within their designated career for a minimum of six years before they can make the conscious choice to become an Enforcer—a decision not to be made lightly given everything the individual would be sacrificing. For one, service to the State is for life, which means no reneging and going back to your previous career, not to mention that Enforcers all reside in the barracks in Zone 5, which means surrendering any previously assigned living quarters. Secondly, Enforcers aren’t allowed to enter partnerships or have families of their own and all existing familial ties must be severed. This rule is in place to prevent deviant forces from ransoming loved ones to gain access to intel or admission to prohibited locations that an Enforcer would be able to access. Not that such an eventuality is even really a threat to the State. Enforcers are nicknamed Loyalists for a reason, and they live and breathe devotion to the governing body. The good of the State must always come first. To them, nothing and no one else matters. The young soldier’s dark eyes scan over my throat before meeting my gaze again, his pupils blown wide with the same fear written all over his face. The metal ring around my neck chafes against the skin of my collarbone when I shift in my seat. As the Enforcer quickly looks down at the floor, I grasp what it is he’s truly afraid of. The irony of the situation would be amusing if it wasn’t so damn maddening. The battle we’re about to fly into poses far more danger to the Enforcers aboard this aircraft than I do, and yet, I’m the one he’s second-guessing. Or maybe, he’s simply doubting the effectiveness of my collar. I breathe in, holding back a mocking laugh. Don’t worry, I’m tempted to say to him. You aren’t the one who needs to fear me.
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What Happened to Coco
-- EXCERPT: In the misty darkness lit only by a blue streetlamp, Ella knew that she was not alone. She turned and saw the faceless figure far down the drizzly street. It came towards her at speed. It didn’t seem to be moving, but she knew that it was gaining on her. She started to run, but her legs would not move. She was stuck, as though in quicksand. When she dared check over her shoulder once again, the figure was only about five steps away, and she could see raspy breaths escape the black silhouette in a wispy white cloud. The scene whirred in front of Ella as she pulled on her legs, sobbing, begging them to move. But they would not. All she could hear was the breathing, slow and rattling, as though it was the figure’s very last. Four. Three. Two. It was the skeletal hand on her shoulder that woke her. In the darkness of her room, she was alone. She turned her alarm off and felt uneasy in the silence. She was soaking wet, her back from sweat, her face from tears. She washed her face, hardly daring to open her eyes and look into the mirror above the sink. She felt watched, hunted. As she brushed her teeth, she turned on all her lights and opened the dreary brown curtains that Lainsbury Hall School had placed in all the dorms. But even in her bright vanity lamps that took over her dressing table, drowning her in bright white light as she did her make up, her eyes darted around the corners of her mirrors, checking all angles of the room in the reflection for the faceless spectre. She was not herself today. Then again, she hadn’t been herself yesterday, either. 
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Photos from Simon_sees, Dmitry Karyshev
