Maiden Tomb
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Excerpt – P r o l o g u e ~ The Twelve Mysterious Daughters
Playful speaks
In the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of the outside world.
I escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep, I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.
We sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.
Father has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.
As the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs, bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.
Finally, I can take it no more.”Is it true what they say about the King’s daughters?”
The grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.
“Where’ve you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad.”
I am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father, who was sailing to the west of this land.
And so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain. Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea, to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.
And there, in a tavern, I met Father.
Now we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me, as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.
This is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information. He calls his strategy “divide and conquer” and it means that I have to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house. This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because for some reason they always want to pet me.
Meanwhile, Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon, I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk, cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or shepherd.
The only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when this issue arises.
“Father is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly.”
One sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.
But the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.
I turn my eyes down. “Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him in the stable yard.”
“He’s the new stable hand, is he?”
I nod.
“Much good he’ll be with a bellyache.”
I look up. “Do you have a remedy for that good sir?”
Father always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns sour, as it flatters the vanity.
The fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. “You’ll have to go to the kitchens for that, son.” He ambles off.
I return to my meal, hoping the others will forget about me and the conversation I’ve just had. Fortunately, it is that time of the meal when men turn tipsy. Pretty soon they are laughing, singing, and telling dirty jokes. One song goes like this:
“There once was a king with twelve daughters—”
—”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters,” sing the others in an out-of-tune chorus.
“But he refused to marry them off—”
—”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!”
“And why did he refuse to marry them off?”
—”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!
“Because they would make unsuitable wives—”
—”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!”
“The eldest is mad.
The second is bad.
The third is sad.
The fourth too bold.
The fifth too shrill.
The sixth too shy.
The seventh too just.
While the eighth loves her father too much—Ha! Ha!
The eighth loves her father too much!
The ninth is a boy.
The tenth a mermaid.
The eleventh a goddess.
While the twelfth has only five years, five years,
The twelfth daughter has only five years.”
“Do not touch!” yells someone to guffawing laughter.
The men pick up their song again:
“But the one you need to watch for is number four, number four,
The one you need to watch for is number four.
For the fourth daughter is a very naughty girl,
With large bold eyes and a nearly naked form—”
This goes on for some time. The fourth daughter seems to fascinate the men. I chew thoughtfully. Somehow, I must find a way of meeting her.
I turn to another man. “Is it true he locked all twelve of his daughters up in a high tower?”
The man nods.
“Why are they going on about the fourth daughter? I thought it was the eldest who dishonored the family name—”
“Keep your voice down,” hisses the fellow. He looks around and then stares back at me from under bushy brows. “Your information is quite good, boy. Most of what you say is true.”
“Which part is false?”
The fellow rises to his feet. “If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Folk pay with their lives by asking too many questions.” He glances around and draws his forefinger across his throat.
“But—” I gesture to the men singing lustily.
“They’re drunk.”
“But—” I say again. But the man vanishes into the press of sweaty male bodies.
Outside, it is a lovely evening with a couple more hours to run before the sun dips below the trees. The castle tower stands up like a finger, a beckoning, a warning, that people can see for miles around. If their eyesight is good, they will see a window set high in the tower, just underneath the tiled roof. On a fine day, the window unlatched, the wind carries the sound of voices, the high sound of girls’ voices gossiping, chattering, giggling. Now, on this late summer evening, someone closes that high window shut. I catch a glimpse of a heart-shaped face with deep-set dark-grey eyes, and light-brown hair drawn back into a braid. Which daughter could she be? Not number four, for she is dressed modestly in a light woolen robe dyed a soft grey to match her eyes.
I lift my head to the moon, a thin fingernail of a crescent. A shiver runs up my spine. Something is going to happen within the month, I can feel it. This place hums with suppressed tensions.
Father will be so interested when I see him tomorrow.
About the Author:
Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and reared in Surrey, England.
About 40 years ago, she surfaced in the United States, inhabiting the Mid-Atlantic region as she wound her way through four careers: violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer, and novelist.
Her first novel, Thwarted Queen, a saga set in 1400s England with a Game of Thrones vibe, won the 2021 Gold Medal IPPY Award for Audiobook. Her second novel, Farewell My Life, a dark historical about a hidden murderer, won the 2021 Independent Press Award for Women’s Fiction and was a 2019 Distinguished Favorite for the New York City Big Book Award. (Farewell is now a set of four novellas that make up the Grace Miller series.)
Maiden Tomb, the first of four projected novellas that will form the Twelve Cursed Maidens series, was a 2026 Distinguished Favorite for the Independent Press Award. Cynthia graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, Cambridge MA, in June 2015.
When she’s not annoying everyone by insisting her fictional characters are more real than they are, Cynthia likes to go for long walks, knit something glamorous, cook in her wonderful kitchen, and play the piano.
You can visit her at:
Twitter ~ https://x.com/cynthiasallys
Blog ~ https://cynthiasallyhaggard.com/blog/
Website ~ https://www.cynthiasallyhaggard.com
Facebook ~ https://www.facebook.com/cynthia.haggard
Instagram ~ https://www.instagram.com/cynthiasallyhaggardauthor/
Facebook ~ https://www.facebook.com/cynthiasallyhaggardnovelist
BOOK TOUR: The Hunter’s Moon by Lee K. Rogers
The Hunter’s Moon
Excerpt:
The animal stayed in the bushes, following along slowly and
silently as it tracked its prey. He could smell it. Taste it. And it attracted
him like nothing ever had before.Do wolves think in the same way that humans do? Or do they
rely only on instinct, hunting mindlessly?Whether intellectual reasoning or animal instinct, the wolf
knew it had to watch this woman. It wanted her. It needed her.Ana breathed in the early autumn air as she headed away from the university and onto the darker streets of the neighboring suburb. It was an older neighborhood, built in the 1920s when the town of Rivelou had begun to spread from its central location on the river, south across the railroad tracks. This particular section of town had been built for the railroad workers: tiny shotgun houses lined up on even tinier lawns.
As Ana crossed Roosevelt Avenue, the streetlights ended, and the sidewalk was illuminated only by occasional porch or walk lights. She loved sauntering home from her evening classes this time of the year. The air, while it could not yet be called crisp, had lost its summer sultriness, a welcome change from the blistering heat of a Kentucky summer.
As she strolled down Harlan Street, farther from the more heavily trafficked avenue, the road became even darker. It was too soon for most of the leaves to have fallen; they were just beginning to turn red on this last week in September and were so thick on the trees that they hid the full moon. Part of the charm of the old neighborhood was the beautiful, large, old maples and oaks, but their roots also tore up the sidewalks. Ana tripped on one of those cracks. Papers, a lipstick, her wallet, and a few other necessary items spilled out of her purse, and she shook her head in disgust. How could she always trip in the same spot, night after night? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t memorized the uneven areas in the sidewalk after years of walking this way.
The young woman bent down to gather her various belongings and froze. Was that something growling? Somewhat spooked, Ana shoved everything back in her bag and hurried down the street. After a moment she slowed, listening carefully to the night noises around her.
Nothing unusual.
She shook her head. It must have been her imagination. She had slowed her pace and continued on when she heard the sound again. A low growl nearby. A dog? No one on this block had an animal big enough to make that sort of sound. That growl had definitely come from something larger than Mrs. Ahearn’s yappy little Pomeranian. She picked up her pace again.
Only a half block until she turned onto Sycamore, then another half block until she arrived at her own home.
The growl came again. She settled her purse more securely on her left shoulder, her computer bag on her right, and doubled her pace. There were no lights on any of the houses on this part of the block, and of course, the moon took that moment to hide behind a cloud. She took a deep breath and tried to walk at a steady pace. She wouldn’t run even though she could now hear the animal behind her as she rounded the corner. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her own porch light on as well as that of her neighbors, Joe and Linsdey. Only a few more steps to safety.
She was almost in front of her own door when she heard the rush of paws with nails clicking behind her on her sidewalk. With a howl, the animal knocked her down. Holding her computer case in front of her face, she yelled and pushed it at the animal’s huge, dark head. “Take a bite of that, you nasty beast!” It was all teeth and glowing eyes as it loomed over her, growling.
“What do you want?” she shouted. Though it had her on the ground, it didn’t make a move, just stood gazing at her. If she did move, it would strike. She had to do something. She drew a deep breath and prepared to scream when someone came running up behind her.
“Hey, you, get back! Get back!”
She turned her head and saw a man running toward her and the slobbering animal. The man grabbed a stick from the ground as he rushed forward, waving it at the animal.
“Back! Get back, you ugly beast!” he shouted again, striking the creature who turned, snarling at him. They stared intently at each other for a moment before the canine finally dodged the stick and lunged to take a bite out of the man.
The man got in a couple of good blows before the dog suddenly grabbed the stick, tugged at it, and knocked him to the ground. Fumbling in her purse, Ana took action just as the dog leaned back on its haunches preparing to strike. Just before he lunged on the fallen man, Ana found her can of mace and hit the dog in the face with the noxious spray. With a howl of pain, it ran into the darkness.
Several more porch lights suddenly popped on to light the night, and the street was filled with neighbors coming to check on the unusual commotion.
“Are you alright?” her rescuer, still gasping and out of breath, asked. “It didn’t bite you, did it?
How to Build a Captivating World for Paranormal Fantasy: Lessons from The Hunter’s Moon
World-building is the backbone of any successful paranormal fantasy. In The Hunter’s Moon—part of The Unleashed Series, set in the eerie yet charming town of Rivelou, Kentucky—the atmosphere, rules, and hidden layers of the world are just as important as the characters themselves. Crafting a believable world where the supernatural thrives alongside the mundane requires attention to detail, logic, and imagination. Here are some strategies I used to build a compelling world.
- Anchor the Supernatural in the Mundane
One of the things I enjoy most in paranormal fantasy is the blend of real-world settings with the extraordinary. In The Hunter’s Moon, Rivelou appears, at first glance, to be a just another small, sleepy town. But the more you read, the more you learn about the eerie underbelly of shifters, witches, and vampires. Using the familiar—a college, a diner, a grocery store, a city park—to contrast ordinary, everyday elements with the paranormal can make things seem all the spookier.
- Establish Clear Laws for Magic and Powers
In every fantasy, sci-fi or paranormal fantasy book I read the creatures and characters have their own rules. For example, in some authors’ worlds, Vampire eat food as well as drink blood, in others they do not. In some fantasies, werewolves can only shift at the full moon, in others they can shift at any time. To create consistency, the author must decide on the rules, the physics, that run their world. These decisions not only shape the plot but also help the reader understand the stakes.
- Create Unique Paranormal Cultures
Different supernatural species should have distinct cultures and social dynamics. This makes your world feel diverse and alive. Consider their customs, power structures, and how they interact with other creatures. Do the different paranormals get along with each other or are they in competition? Are the covens, packs, etc., filled with rivalries and tensions? Are there governing bodies or is society ruthless and chaotic?
- Build Mystery and History into the Setting
A rich paranormal world has layers of history that affect the present. How did this particular society come into being? What ancient myths or secrets are at play? This type of backstory helps make the book more believable to the reader. Scatter hints of backstory throughout the dialogue and plot.
- Use the Setting to Shape the Characters’ Journeys
In paranormal fantasy, the setting itself can act as a character. The mood, climate, and terrain influence the choices your characters make. A creepy forest might provide a perfect ambush point, or a secluded house could offer temporary refuge from enemies.
- Create Conflict That Feels Organic to the World
Conflict should arise naturally from the world you’ve built. Power struggles, ancient feuds, and conflicting moral codes can create tension between characters and propel the story forward. The characters’ struggles should reflect the rules and nature of your world.
Final Thoughts: Make the World Feel Alive
The key to successful world-building is immersion. The world must feel alive, with rules that make sense, cultures that feel rich, and conflicts that flow naturally from its design. In The Hunter’s Moon, the town of Rivelou serves as more than just a backdrop—it’s a character in its own right, filled with mystery, danger, and passion.
BOOK TOUR: A Prophecy Awakened by Angie Barton
A Prophecy Awakened
About the Author:
BOOK TOUR: Immortal Wounds by Angie Barton
Immortal Wounds
About the Author:
BOOK TOUR & GIVEAWAY: The Bridge to Magic by Alex Thornbury #Fantasy
The Frost of Winter Solstice – by Alex Thornbury
Our village was the last to stand against the invasion of the godly folk from the southern kingdoms. With their strange magic of the cross and prayer, they had pushed back the Spirit’s Veil to our border and cleansed the lands of beings that visited humanity through ages past. And it fell to our warriors to hold back the godly folk from destroying the last of that which was sacred. The Veil was the only way our long-dead ancestors could return and bring their stories to our fireside. And
it was through these stories that we kept the history of our lands alive.The Winter Solstice of my twelfth year started like any other. Come sunset, the Veil would once again part, and would not close again until sunrise. It was to be a long night and the favourite with our family. We spent the day readying the cottage for visitors; sweeping, stocking the fire and keeping it bright and hot, as the visitors were prone to chills. Though they did not eat the food we offered, we still prepared a feast as much as we could in our poverty. Mother decorated everything to hide the meagre affair.
After sunset, my sister and I, scrubbed clean and dressed in our finest dresses, joined our parents by the fireplace. They stood side by side in front of Grandma’s favourite chair, holding hands and smiling.
‘Come children, look who is here,’ Mother exclaimed, forgetting in her excitement that we had not the adult eyes to see the beings from beyond the Veil.
‘It’s grandma,’ Father clarified.
So we went to stand beside our parents, looking down at the empty chair, feeling both chilled and yet secretly foolish. Only a handful of nights each year did the invisible visitors arrive. As I grew older, it was hard not to imagine this must be some game the adults played with their children, each solstice, Spring’s Rise and Eve of Souls.
‘Aye, they have grown since you saw them last summer,’ Mother said to the empty chair.
And we were made to sit on the floor by the fire, as mother and father took their seats at the feat-laden table. Grandma then told us stories, which our parents repeated, for we had not the adult ears to hear the voices of the beings from beyond the Veil.
As the night deepened, the fire flickered suddenly and turned icy blue and cold.
Our parents fell abruptly silent and stared at each other with a flash of fright. Then, with strained faces, they turned to me, and I knew what it meant. Only, I had never truly believed that this night would come for me. Surely this was just a game the adults played. We were meant to smile and eat the cakes and listen to the wise tales.
‘Frost has come,’ Father said gravely, looking at me.
I shook my head in denial. No, I never believed in Frost. That was his name, the changer who opened the eyes of children when they reached the cusp of adulthood. Except, not everyone survived the change. Else, some returned with Frost’s bite upon their toes and fingers. Like Ordur, the baker’s son, who now had only eight fingers left.
Both mother and father rose, for Frost was outside, waiting for me. They led me to the door, dressed as I was for the warm fireplace and not the snow-covered landscape beyond warm walls.
The cold hit me instantly, cutting and laced with threat.
‘Walk to the white tree where Frost is waiting,’ said Mother with a treble to her voice, and closed the door behind me.
Barefooted, I began the walk to the edge of the forest. It was dark, save for the moonlit snow, and the chill in the air was fierce. As I drew closer to the white tree, the air grew colder and colder, until my blood threatened to turn to ice. No one was around.
At the tree, I stopped. A part of me still denied that any of this was real. Surely, I just needed to turn around and return home, for I could no longer feel my legs or arms, and every breath I drew was shards of glass.
Sharp pain exploded in my eyes, and I cried out, closing them tight. Something warm trickled down my cheeks.
Another jarring pain hit my ears, and I fell to my knees.
I forced myself to open my eyes and saw drops of dark blood in the sparkling snow, and … large, furry paws. I followed the furry legs up and I saw him, beneath the tree, looming high above me. The creature was made of ice, with horns and fur and sharp, black teeth. In his thick hands, he clasped two needle-like icicles. Blood dripped from the tips.
He looked at me and I at him. Then he turned around and walked away into the forest.
I returned home, weeping tears and blood.
Mother wrapped me in a blanket and comforted me with kind words. But it was Grandma’s voice I recognised from long ago that soothed me. ‘Bring the wee lass to the fire and give her the hot
apple wine with extra sugar. She’ll be right in no time.’In the chair sat Grandma, her form faint and glowing.
‘Come over here, lass, and sit next to your sister where I can see you better. Now, where was I? Oh aye, I remember. I was a wee bit younger than you when Frost came for me. It was the winter after the great fire that swept through the forest when the old fool Baerran the Wise offended the Firelord …’
And the rest of the night I listened to my grandma’s old stories, whilst my parents repeated them for my younger sister. And I hoped our warriors would keep the godly folk away from our lands.
The Bridge to Magic
There was a time before the bridge was forged, but those stories had been mostly forgotten. The dark history of that bygone age was now buried in the archives of the priests. Only the echoes of it remained on the tongues of minstrels and drunks. Elika had heard them all and each tale seemed more terrible and
unimaginable than the other.Those were dismal times of endless wars—men against magic, magic against men. The time when even the storms and rains were at the mercy of magic and its fickle moods. It might snow in the summer, or the hot winds might carry sand upon them, burying entire cities. Honest travelers feared to ride through the
forest, lest the trees attacked them. A farmer might wake up to find his river
flowing the wrong way or dried up altogether. Those days were gone and might
have been forgotten, but for this stark reminder before Elika’s eyes.And who had not stood before the dark bridge in their last moments, facing that choice they all must one day make?
Like that hoary, old codger in the ale-stained uniform of the city’s Blue Guard who had stood before the bridge for nigh on an hour; unsteady on his legs, his sour breath steaming in the crisp, winter night, drinking deeply of the cheap gin, which was as likely to kill him by morning as what he now faced. He took a long swig out of his bottle as he braced himself for the unknown fate ahead.
Elika sat huddled in the doorway of an abandoned house, watching him, needing to know whether he would reach the other side or die crossing. Her ears filled with the howling winds rising from the great chasm, and she did not need to imagine what he was thinking, staring as he did at the monstrous bridge and the lifeless bank beyond, for she was thinking the same—surely it is better than what
remains at our back. Better than what approaches.She clutched the cloak tighter around herself against the biting gust of wind trying to rip it from her. She had scavenged the woolen cloak some days ago
from a dead beggar, and it still smelled of his mustiness. She pulled up her
knees to her chest and clamped her icy hands under her arms.The stone wall was cold at her back. Her breath steamed. She waited and watched the old guard take another wobbly step toward the bridge, seeking courage in his gin-dulled mind. He took another gulp, stared at the empty bottle in surprise, then threw it aside with a foul curse. The bottle hit the frozen ground and
rolled off the edge of their world into the chasm, to fall for eternity in that
endless darkness.
About the Author:
BOOK TOUR: Lords of LA #2 by Frank Zanca #GraphicNovel #Horror
Lords of LA #2
After writing my seventh novel, my twelfth screenplay, and my ninth comic book/graphic novel, I’m still learning what not to do. I often speak to other writers who ask me for suggestions and the first thing I ask is: “What is your story about?” I’ve heard things like, “It’s about a world where…?” or “It’s a cookbook, but also a story about my life in Afghanistan. The recipes are pages sprinkled into the story.”
My initial response has been awestruck, but then gathered my thoughts and said in respective reply, “A story is never about a place, it’s about people.” To the second, “Your book is either about your life in Afghanistan or it’s a cookbook, it cannot be both. It can be a cookbook with a little anecdotal companion to each recipe, but you can’t stop the story to throw a recipe on a page and then continue – it would be jarring.”
The secondary response to each is the same – “How does the publishing marketing team market your book?” In the case of the biographical cookbook, it can only be marketed as one thing, so it’s either a cookbook or it’s a biography. It can’t be marketed as both. One will always take a backseat to the other. Sure, there are dual genre stories, like supernatural romance and sci-fi fantasy, but you’re still marketing to one set of readers. In other words, know your audience; know exactly to whom you are marketing. If you find yourself marketing to two different audiences, then there’s an error somewhere that you must reconsider.
After you choose your genre, then you must define your story. You can do this in one of two ways: 1) Create a character and then build the story around them or 2) Create a story and then build the characters that will run the obstacle course you’ve built for them. I’ve done both. Especially in the comic book medium, you find yourself building the character first. From there you must create the hero’s journey, which must be present in all stories. This is what makes your character not only relatable but makes the reader root for them. The harder the struggle, the more the audience will engage. However, that struggle must be grounded in the reality of your story. If your character falls a hundred feet from a cliff in the 1800s and in the end must win a foot race against the villain, most readers are going to check out due to the implausibility. Make sure you’re not going too far out of the box.
Make sure you stick the landing. I read a great many books published by major imprints where I find the ending ill conceived and disappointing. An ending doesn’t have to be epic, but it should give a nice bit of closure to the main character’s story where have achieved their goals and become the person they were meant to be. Give the ending a great deal of thought and make sure you get the opinion of several people before you settle into the editing process.
BOOK TOUR: Titanian Warrior by Victoria Saccenti #PNR #FantasyRomance @VictoriaSAuthor
Titanian Warrior
Excerpt:
Shivalik Hills, Nepal
The towering pair of boulders stood as gatekeepers and markers of the way. A steep path snaked between them until farther down the hill, the road disappeared in thick fog. Leaning on the closest rock, Hagen steadied himself to catch his breath, then pushed on.
Bloodlust crippled his Titanian vision. Still, he stumbled, rolled, and crawled over jagged rocks and gnarled roots with single-minded determination to reach his appointed meeting place, the cavern at the base of the Shivaliks, and the sole entrance to Hades’s domain on the earthly plane. A perverse satisfaction filled him each time he
scraped and sliced his exposed skin, as this was only a precursor to the punishment he deserved. If he could shred his flesh to strips in anticipation as he had done with his clothes, so much the better.Hagen advanced through the haze, seeking the deity’s promised signal. Images of his frenzy during the last skirmish prodded him. He strained past gore-filled images, and the effort paid off. There, deep within the haze, a faint red light marked the spot. Alecto had not forgotten. A hitched breath escaped his lungs as he stood and trod on a
more secure step.As the haze dissipated, the cavern’s hungry mouth gaped before him. Healing and deliverance acquired through pain would soon be his. As he inched closer to the wavering light, he removed the last remaining strips of clothing. The offering had to be bare and unadulterated. Nothing but skin would satisfy the Fury, purify his spirit, and
postpone the horror of termination for another ten years—a mere blip in the lifespan
of a Titanian. And yet, a decade offered hope and an opportunity to continue
his search for true salvation: his eternal mate.His brother Soren had been at the edge of obliteration when the universe revealed Maya’s symbol in his scrolls. He’d been given a Simurgh, no less, the most powerful of all phoenix mates. Soren’s joy and deliverance had pleased Hagen without reservation or a covetous thought. His brother had earned such a high reward.
But what about him? Was he unworthy of an eternal mate, of love, and companionship? He’d only wished for a small slice of heaven. His cousin Roald had found eternal happiness with Ginny. Staring at an endless existence of service and loneliness was a frightening prospect for a Titanian of any rank.
Hagen could never be the brilliant fighter Soren was, and had, on occasion, not followed every command to the letter. Nevertheless, he’d proven his mettle and unwavering loyalty to the Titanian cause in and out of combat. Many a night, he’d promised to change his unorthodox ways and toe the line, if only the universe would grant him a phoenix mate.
Alas no, he’d been denied time and again. After witnessing from the sidelines the mating ceremony and resulting Titanian bliss, frustration burned a hole in his chest. Before the emotion turned to bitterness, he’d escaped to his old daemon hunting grounds in Asia.
On his flight back, he realized that his cherished airplane and state-of-the-art electronic gadgets no longer satisfied or entertained him. Even that last bit of gratification had been taken from him. Because seeing happiness unfold for Soren and Roald had displayed in real time what mattered: the completion a mate brought to a
Titanian’s soul. The beaming couples had stepped up onto a new plane of
existence. After witnessing their ascendance, no fancy equipment could ever
fulfill him.The hole in his chest turned black and cold.
Blood hunger, the deadly lust, awoke.
Visions tortured him. Rage drove him to living nightmares. He searched for minion hideouts and sought conflict at every turn. In the heat of these encounters, bloodlust blinded him to allies and friends who’d trusted him with their lives. Asian black bear and clouded leopard shifters had perished under his hands. While his bewildered, dying friends pleaded for their lives, he’d only seen minions. The red haze
controlled him, and he’d indulged the insatiable hunger to spill all blood.
The last clash had been the worst. Standing on a promontory, Hagen viewed an endless battlefield stained with red blood, green ooze, and mutilated remains. And as the mental fog cleared, horror captured his soul and he fell on his knees, begging the universe for help.The chthonic deity, the implacable Alecto, heard and replied in his mind.“Await my arrival at the place of atonement.”
Explanations had not been necessary. Hagen’s Titanian spirit, same as every supernatural in the earthly plane, knew the location of the terrible gate. In eras past, he’d avoided going near it. Now, stripped to his natural state, defeated and humbled, he entered the darkness with a bowed head and an anxious demeanor.
To his right, four stonelike posts, spread in a rectangular formation, jutted out of the rock wall. Hagen studied them, unsure of what to do.
“Step in. Face out and clasp the posts. Place your ankles outside each one,” the Fury instructed.
“Receive and accept the pain, Titanian. Do not flinch or resist. Show your contrition. Only then will the universe accept your offering.”
About the Author:
BOOK TOUR: A Haunting at Marianwood by E.M. Munsch #mystery
A Haunting at Marianwood
Excerpt:
A HAUNTING AT MARIANWOOD
Sister Miriam Patrice slid back from the kneeler. The quiet of the church soothed her as it wrapped its velvet cloak of serenity around her. She sat, hands folded,
once in prayer but now to stop the trembling. Glancing at the sunlight
streaming through the stained-glass windows casting a rainbow on the empty
pews, she drew in deep slow breaths. She looked at the watch pinned to her
tunic. Time to get back to work. She rose to leave the church, her place of
refuge, a place free from the distractions of the running the community and the
new retirement home the sisters established to help make ends meet.The members of the Sisters of the Blessed Mother of God found their numbers
dwindling. New recruits, as Sister Miriam Patrice called them mimicking her
cousin Dash Hammond’s military jargon, were very rare. The teaching
congregation once had more than a hundred sisters. Vocations, callings to
either the religious or the educational side of the community, had fallen to less
than a handful each year.As she walked down the aisle to the back of the church, she heard it again. Tap, tap, tap. She stopped to listen, making sure she wasn’t mistaken. That sound
sent shivers down her spine. Squaring her shoulders she walked to the doors
next to the church exit. One led up to the choir loft, the other down to the
cellar. In days past she had gone up the stairs; today she would go down.Pulling the doorknob, Miriam Patrice met the resistance of a locked door. She pulled out her keys and unlocked it. She struggled with the door, suggesting to her
that no one had gone to the cellar in a while.The stone steps were worn but sturdy. She moved cautiously into the darkness, one hand on the wall to steady her nervous knees, the other searching for the
handrail. Her hope was that the security guard forgot to close the door one day
and some critter, not two legged, was trapped down here and making the tap,
tap, tap sound. Logically she knew this was wrong, but the alternative could be
worse.Decades ago they discovered one of the newer buildings constructed during a period of rapid expansion had been built on an underground spring. It wasn’t long before the building tilted, as did their finances. What a waste of time and money.
Fearful that what she would find was a tell-tale pooling or bubbling of water,
she moved forward slowly. She said a silent prayer that she would not stumble
into a puddle, a precursor of the inevitable unwelcome news.Her trek seemed unnecessarily slow though reason told Miriam Patrice she should alert one of her sisters where she was just in case she lost her footing. But
her reasoning had not been the sharpest of late. She blamed her sleepless
nights, not because of an uneasy conscience but an overabundance of concern for
her congregation and its uncertain future, both financially and individually.After spending a half an hour poking into the corners, searching for the origin of the sound, Miriam Patrice gave up. She needed a flashlight if she wanted to do
a proper search. Next time she would be prepared. Next time, she told herself,
she would be less skittish, more confident that she could deal with whatever
sprung up from the tap, tap, tap. After deciding this, she nodded to herself.
At least she didn’t hear a drip, drip, drip.The sound had stopped so she returned to the church. As she locked the door behind her, the tap, tap, tap began again, louder this time. If she permitted herself, she would have said damn.
About the Author:
RELEASE BLITZ: A Raven Remix by Sarah Hualde #YoungAdult #CozyMystery #Paranormal @Sthecoffeejedi
A Raven Remix
Excerpt:
It wasn’t life that flashed before my eyes as Betty Fae thwacked me between the shoulder blades. It was death and disaster—replays of all the faces of shock and sadness worn by acquaintances of my past. Death of one sort or the other followed that stupid Raven.
I remembered them all. Vividly. The writer, the homeschool mom, the surfer, the politician. They were among the near-strangers I’d encountered and endangered.
Following their faces came the really painful pictures. The friendly child advocate, the sweet boy next door, and losing my aunt and uncle. After them, but always above them, followed the loss of my sister and father.
All because of the same intolerable bird. Gracious enough to give me a glimpse of their perils before nudging them to the brink. Impending doom sat, staring at me, from the cup of the only friend I had in town- Janice Rockland. It lingered there amid the froth bubbles, telling me Janice Rockland had twenty-four hours, at most, left to live.
My eyes watered. My throat closed all the tighter. Even after it dislodged my Belgian waffle. Air battled past my suffocating emotions. I gulped it down,
despising myself and fearing for my boss.Janice and Betty Fae offered me a glass of water and napkins, thinking they’d saved the day. Little did they know. Trouble had just landed in their small town.
Janice watched me through the rest of the meal. If I told her she was about to die, would she be able to eat? I sipped my coffee and avoided conversation.
Long ago, I’d explained my weird glimpses to one of the Raven’s victims. Instead of believing me, my friend grew increasingly sarcastic about my confession. He mocked me. I didn’t blame him. I’m not sure I would’ve believed me, either. In the end, his sarcasm killed him. Laughing and gesturing like a mad bird to make fun of my premonitions, he’d lost control of his bicycle and collided with a garbage truck just as it was lowering its load.
No, I wasn’t about to tell Janice about her Raven. I’d keep watch. Stay sharp. Once the bird made an appearance, he wouldn’t leave until his prey was dead. Accidentally or with malice aforethought.
The next song, movie quote, television commercial, or anything ominous could clue me in on how to save her. At least I could give it a shot. If I didn’t keep a constant eye on Janice, her death would be on my head.
About the Author:
BOOK TOUR: Asylum by Susy Smith #dystopian #romanticsuspense @susy8469
Asylum
Excerpt
“Can I ask you something?” Lacy asked quietly.
Jace looked over his shoulder. “Anything.”
“This tattoo on your back.” She ran a finger down his spine. He shivered.
“Yeah?”
“Why do you have it? I mean, what made you get a wolf-dragon tattoo? It’s unique.”
“Do you want the short answer or the long one?” She trailed her finger back up his spine. “Just tell me what was on your mind. Did you design it?”
“Yeah, I did,” he said, his voice husky. Her fingers kept tracking his spine and he found concentration difficult. “I’ve always been fascinated with dragons. The
symbolism behind the myth. I love everything about them. But the dragon needs
temperance. With great power comes arrogance, conceit, and a thirst for even
more power.” He chuckled and glanced at her.“Just about everything you’ve accused me of.”
Her hand stilled. “Jace, I—”
“It’s okay,” he reassured her, giving her leg a squeeze. “Don’t feel bad.”
“Go on,” she urged.
He continued to tread water. “Well, the dragon holds immense possibility while the wolf relies on his instincts to guide him. Combined, the dragon sees all the
possibilities before him, but the wolf chooses based on instinct. His heart
guides him. It’s a balance. The dragon embodies primordial power. The wolf
checks it with his ability to relate to others. The wolf takes on everything
the dragon is—his protection, loyalty, fearlessness, and strength—and enhances
it, makes it stronger. The two combined incorporate everything I want to be.
The tattoo is a reminder. Especially when I’m having a bad day.”She laughed. “Or when someone accuses you of being conceited?”
“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Do you like it?”
“I do. You said you designed it. Does that mean you drew this?”
“Yeah. I knew what I wanted.”
“Wow.” She sounded impressed. “I had no idea you could draw. You’re talented.”
He grinned. “Girl, you have no idea just how talented I am.”
“And the dragon rises.”
Laughter burst from his chest. “Touché.”
A red-eared slider swam their direction. “Look.” He pointed at the turtle’s nose jutting out of the water.
Her grip around his neck tightened. “Let’s go back.”
“He won’t hurt you,” he said, laughing, but swam back anyway. He helped her out then hoisted himself on the dock beside her. He retrieved his shirt and offered
it to her. “Dry off with this.”She took the shirt and mopped her face. “Pond water is so gross, but that was fun.” She gave him a demure smile. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He spent the rest of the day making her laugh. Being her distraction. But as the
afternoon waned, so did her spirits. She shifted from cheerful to pensive. The
temperature dropped as the western sun burned to the ground. “I guess we’d
better get back.”She sighed. “Yup. Duty calls.”
They untied their horses and started back. When Highway 11 stretched before them like a winding, black snake, he trotted up beside her and grinned. “I saw the
girl I used to know today.”They crossed the highway onto Monroe land then she turned and faced him, eyes full of pain and regret. “That girl is gone, Jace. She doesn’t exist anymore. If
that’s who you’re looking for then give up because you’re wasting your time.”
She gave Acer a nudge and galloped away. Frustrated, he urged his horse
forward. She wasn’t going to run. Not this time. He raced beside her and
grabbed her reins.Eight hooves skidded on dirt and loose gravel and halted in a dusty cloud between the two farmhouses. His horse whinnied, tossing her head. She jerked her reins out of his hands. “That was a stupid thing to do,” she shouted. “I could’ve been
thrown!” Chest heaving, he jumped off his horse. His boots thudded on the
gravel. He stomped around Acer, trying to check his frustration. The girl was
scared, and he didn’t want to demolish the progress he made today. He reached
up and plucked her out of the saddle. “Stop running from me, girl.” He studied
her and saw her demeanor shift from anger to fear. “I’m not going to hurt you.
If you’d crawl out of your pain long enough, you’d see that.” She flung her
hands up, eyes glistening.“You don’t think I’m trying? I’m drowning trying to save everyone else, but
who’s gonna save me?” She bit her lower lip and looked away. He drew her into
his arms and to his surprise, she didn’t fight him. He rested his chin on her
head and whispered, “Hold on to me. I’ve got you.”
Creating Character: Breathing Life into the Cast of Asylum
If you remove characters from a story, any story, all you’re left with is a news report, right?So, characters, even though they’re metaphors, should feel, act, and speak like people. If you plucked your characters out of your book and Geppetto’d them into real, living beings, would they withstand the test? Or would they fall short as too perfect? Or too flat? No one is princess perfect just as no one, not even the most obtuse person you know, is two dimensional.
- First impressions. What is the first thing you notice when you meet someone? Unfortunately, for most of us, it’s their physical appearance. When readers meet characters in a story, they must be able to “see” what they look like. I read a novel recently, and the author never clued me in on what eye color the main character had. For me, that was super annoying. Seasoned authors will tell you to character sketch and that’s one of the first things I had to sit down and do. I mentioned eyes, and for me personally, that’s a big deal. I tend to focus on eye color (for better or worse). You have three basic colors to choose from: blue, green, brown, and their variants. It’s how you describe the color and what shines through them that will help bring your character off the page. My main character, Lacy, had green eyes, but what about them? In Jace’s point of view, he described the color changing with her mood from a thoughtful forest green to glittering diamond hard. Conversely, Jace had blue eyes, but not the light, ice blue of Zach, his brother. They were dark, sometimes with a humorous spark, and other times darkened with desire. In moments your characters can’t speak, their eyes can. Any character can have green, blue, or brown eyes. Breathe life into them. Otherwise, you’re left with a main character’s eyes the same boring brown as your supporting cast.
- Give your characters flaws. This was hard for me to do. Even though I wanted Lacy, my main character, to react to diverse, difficult situations with unerring grace, I realized she couldn’t. I let her make mistakes: lose her temper with Jace, treat Hailey harshly, yell at Cat. I placed her in unthinkable circumstances. Of course, she was going to fail! Why? Because that’s what people do. How they handle and grow from their failures shows the reader of whatmettle your character’s made. Crawl through their head for their reactions. At the beginning of Asylum, Lacy suffered a brutal attack. As her rapist was leaving, I felt I had to show how absolutely devastated and angry she was. I can’t tell you how many times I re-wrote the scene until she uttered two words to himthat summed up everything she felt. As an author, I’m never happy using vulgar language, but at that point in Lacy’s life, those two words were exactly what she would’ve said. Even though I fought her (and myself), I eventually conceded they were the best two words to write.
- Character vernacular; keep it real! If it sounds stiff and too formal as you read it back to yourself, it probably is. I had to go back and edit in contractions, and even use words like, y’all. Two of my characters needed their speech to set them apart. Raul, born and raised in Mexico, needed to sound different. Think about how a foreigner doesn’t contract their words. They say things like, “I do not understand,” instead of,“I don’t get it.” Edwards, an older gentleman and from a different era, used words like fella instead of guy or man. Set your characters apart by what they say, how they sound. Otherwise, you’re back to a news report.
- Oh, the feels… Showing my character’s emotion instead of tellingabout it was what I struggled with the most. Those dang adverbs ending in ‘ly’ tripped me up more times than I can count. Don’t underestimate the power of movement. Show your character’s frustration by pacing, running a hand through their hair, heat rising up their neck, etc. In Asylum, I wrote, “Her feet slammed against the wood floor. Her socks softened the impact, and much to her disappointment, muted the sound.” This showed Lacy’s frustration. It took a lot of work to edit in how Lacy felt by her actions. Your character’s differing personalities will show through their actions. In Hailey’s case, she showed how she felt by simply sniffing. I didn’t have to say she was too haughty to do menial household chores to convey her personality. I wrote, “She sniffed. ‘I don’t plunge toilets.’” Can you see it? I can.
- Do you know someone who’s eccentric? We all do. Don’t be afraid to give your character a quirk or two. Cat entered Lacy’s life and quickly became her surrogate mother. Even though Cat wasn’t a main character, I wanted her to stand out as no-nonsense, and a bit audacious. She kept the farm running and everyone in line with nonsensical metaphors. One of my favorite examples is when she chastised Jace for picking a fight with Travis. She said, “Travis didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Lacy and you know it. I’ll admit, sometimes he has no more sense than a snake in a snowstorm …” Memorable, right? I mean, who wants to be compared to a snake in a snowstorm?
Breathe life into your characters. You’re omniscient, the master of your own universe. Whether your story is plot driven, or character driven, you need strong characters that will live inside the readers mind long after they’ve finished the book.
About the Author:
