Pirates in Hell A Heroes in Hell Anthology created by Janet Morris Book Tour! @SilverDaggerBookTours #PiratesinHell #HeroesInHell @LarryAtchleyJr @PerseidPublishing @perseid_press

Black heart buccaneers face fiery seas, monstrous

 krakens, and the wrath of the Devil himself! 

Pirates in Hell

A Heroes in Hell Anthology

created by Janet Morris

Genre

 Dark Fantasy Pirate Anthology 

Avast, ye readers! Here be Pyrates! Feast yer eyes on

 the cursed treasures before you! Hoist the skull 'n'

 crossbones! Walk the plank with hell's sorest losers!

 Join the damnedest buccaneers and privateers ever to

 sail infernal seas. 

Here be twelve tales of piracy spun by Janet Morris,

Chris Morris, Nancy Asire, Paul Freeman, Larry Atchley

 Jr, Rob Hinkle, Michael H. Hanson, Joe Bonadonna,

 Andrew P. Weston, S.E. Lindberg, and Jack William

 Finley.

Corsairs, freebooters and plunderers shiver their

 timbers and meet their fates as the devil's dupes learn

 why the deeper in hell you go, the colder it gets.

The depths of hell chill the boldest sinner as damned

 souls learn why the deeper in hell you go, the colder it

 gets.

Inside you’ll find:

Bitter Business 

 Jane

 Morris and Chris Morris

Pieces of Hate 

Andrew P. Weston

Evil Angel –  Janet Morris and Chris Morris

Who’s a Pirate Now? 

 Nancy Asire

Curse of the Pharaohs 

S.E. Lindberg

Lir’s Children 

 Paul Freeman

Unholiest Grail 

 Larry Atchley, Jr.

The Bitter Taste of Hell’s Injustice 

 Jack William Finley

Serial Recall and Beautiful Tortures 

 Michael H. Hanson

Drink and the Devil

Rob Hinkle

The Pirates of Penance 

 Joe Bonadonna

Muse of Fire 

Janet Morris and Chris Morris

Hell Hounds (excerpt) 

 Andrew P. Weston

**On Sale for Only $2.99 for September Only!**

Amazon * B&N * Bookbub * Goodreads

Larry Atchley Jr. is a writer of primarily science fiction,

 fantasy, horror, and poetry. His other interests include

 Qi-Gong Kung Fu, British Humour, hiking, mountain

 biking, everything about tea, sword fencing, traditional

 archery, reading and collecting books, and playing

 harmonica and guitar. 

He is a crewmember of the piratical poetry and musical

 performance group The Seadog Slam and is frequently

 a guest author at various literary conventions and

 other events. He is a contributing author to Janet

 Morris’s Heroes in Hell series. 

You can read his blog, 

The Short Pale Writer in the Long

 Black Coat

 www.larryatchleyjr.wordpress.com.

Website * Facebook * X * Bookbub * Amazon *

Goodreads

#DarkFantasy #Fantasybooks #pirates #piratebooks #anthology #historicalfantasy #books #readers #reading #booklovers #BookTour #Giveaway #bookbuzz #bookboost #bookrecommendations #BookBlogger #Bookstagram #bookish #bookclub #MustRead #Writersofinstagram #AmReading #BookPromo #AuthorPromo #writingcommunity #readerscommunity  

Excerpt from Pirates in Hell – Unholiest Grail by Larry Atchley, Jr.

Over the threshold and into the shop strode a man with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and a mustache turned up at the ends with styling wax. He wore a tailored blue frock coat, tan trousers neatly pressed. He waded through ankle-deep standing water in black leather knee-high boots. “Welcome to Hellish Curiosities and Clothiers,” LaVey said. “Can I interest you in anything in particular?”

“Hell-o to you as well, my damned man,” the patron said in an oratorical voice. “My name is Sir Henry Morgan. I have heard it said that your shop is the place where the rarest items of special interest may be found.”

“So true. So true.” Purring, LaVey stroked his black goatee. Finally, a viable customer. “We specialize in unobtanium. What, precisely, are you looking for, dear sir?”

“A product. A very special product,” said Morgan. “I’ve heard rumors that a cup exists, a special cup — a cup which, when filled with alcoholic libations or possibly any liquid, allows the drinker to actually become inebriated. As I’m sure you can imagine, such an item would be very much in demand.”

“Your reputation does precede you, Sir. And your predilection for strong drink is well known.” LaVey said. “Do you know that, after your death topside, an entire rum distillery company was named after you?”

“Heh, oh yes.” Morgan grinned. “But they got my image all wrong on the labels. I’ve never worn anything so gaudy as that outfit they portray.”

“If such a cup were in my possession,” LaVey responded, “its purchase price would be quite dear. Only a select few of the damned would be able to afford such an item.”

“Naturally.” Morgan shrugged. “I have considerable resources at my disposal. What would you charge for such a wondrous unholy relic . . . If you possessed it, that is.”

“If an unholy grail such as you describe actually exists,” LaVey said carefully, “surely His Satanic Majesty would never allow a mere sinner to possess it. His rules forbid the pleasure of drunkenness to the damned, as you surely know. To own such an item would mean risking the wrath of all the lords of the latter-day hells.”

Morgan drew close to LaVey and said archly, “Mister LaVey, let’s end this charade, shall we? Everyone knows you deal in certain items of supposedly mystical, or even reputedly mythical, powers. Scuttlebutt has it that most of what you sell is counterfeit rubbish, that—”

“Rubbish!” LaVey interrupted. “I’ve never been so insulted in all my—”

“Wait! Let me finish,” Morgan ordered. “However, some souls whisper that not everything you sell is a sham. A certain spear comes to mind.”

“Now see here, my good sir! That whole business about a certain spear got me into a great deal of trouble with His Satanic Majesty. I’d really rather not discuss the topic further.”

“As you wish.” Morgan licked his lips. “I shall merely point out that if someone in New Hell knows where to find this unholy grail, you are that someone. You claim to run the only place where such items can be found. ‘Unobtanium’ you call it. It would be in your best interest to actually have this item, the fabled ‘real deal’. You’d be discreet about it, of course, so as not to rouse the suspicions of the Devil’s Children. So naturally you couldn’t advertise that you possess such a cup. Thus my question to you remains: Do you in fact have it? And, if you do, what would it cost me to buy it? Alternatively, if you don’t now have it, could you get it upon for a qualified buyer? Name your price, and I will gladly pay it.”

LaVey pensively rubbed his Mephistophelian goatee, thinking what riches might be his, could he find so important a relic for this inveterate privateer, once lieutenant governor of Jamaica, whence he’d raided settlements far and wide with such single-minded rapacity that he secured a license to attack and seize Spanish vessels for the English Crown. “If I’m going to risk His Satanic Majesty’s ire, my price will be substantial.”

“A soul could name his own price for an item that can make this hellish existence less vexing.” Morgan grimaced. “Only from great risk comes great reward.”

“Yes, great indeed,” LaVey said. But where in hell could it be, this grail which Morgan so desired that he’d buy it rather than steal it? Returning from the storeroom to the selling floor with a crystal sphere in her fingers, Madam Blavatsky caught LaVey’s attention, casting furtive glances toward the back room. “Excuse me, Captain Morgan,” said LaVey and followed her into the back, which smelled disconcertingly of mildew.

Once out of Morgan’s sight, Blavatsky sucked on the corners of her toothless mouth and whispered, “For ‘great reward’, we may be able to assist him. This grail has shown itself to me.”

LaVey lit up like a cannon fuse. “You know where it is? Why haven’t you mentioned anything about this before,” LaVey demanded of the infuriating, self-proclaimed mystagogue and leading proponent of Theosophy.

“Because no one has asked about it until now,” she replied. “Why must I have as my assistant the greatest idiot savant of the modern age?”

“I’ve only now seen a vision of it while you and the customer were bantering about its price,” Blavatsky said, giving him a nasty sidelong glare.

La Vey took Madam Blavatsky’s arm, and the two nonchalantly made their way to where Morgan stood, staring through the storefront window, holding a pair of brass Carl Zeiss Jena binoculars close to squinting eyes. “I don’t have it right now, but we know where the cup may be found,” LaVey said to Morgan. “One million diablos is my finder’s fee,” LaVey said.

“Whoa ho!” Morgan exclaimed. “You’ve the soul of a buccaneer. A princely sum indeed. Very well, Mister LaVey, you shall have your price—if and when you produce the cup. The real grail, the goblet of my desire, of course, and not some simulacrum.”

“Of course, Sir Henry.” LaVey rubbed his hands together, sensually anticipating the feel of all those diablos under his sweating palms. “To deliver, I must mount an expedition. Would you like to join us?”

“Join you? On an expedition? I’ll lead any expedition my diablos fund. First I must needs muster a crew—reavers who’ll take my orders, not yours. Even in hell, he who has the gold makes the rules.” Morgan chuckled at his own levity.

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Choice of print or ebook copy of Pirates in Hell, 

$10 Amazon giftcard 

– 1 winner each!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

After the Husbands by Gina Cheyne Blog Tour!

 

After The Husbands 

What do you do when you’ve buried four husbands and not yet found a fifth?  

Wealthy Lady Bumstead takes a cruise down the Mekong in Vietnam with a hired female companion, Anne de Tonkin. Annie is not just a kind old lady, she is a brilliant listener and soon knows all about the other travellers. But, on the last day of the cruise she is murdered. 

Lady Bumstead, unable to see any reason why Annie should be murdered, is convinced the killer was after her. She hires the See Ms Detective Agency to protect her and find the killer. At the same time she decides to do some sleuthing herself, and, with the help of her high powered hearing aid, she begins listening to all the conversations around her. 

As the SeeMs Detectives investigate the crime, they find Annie had a rich past and connections with almost everyone else on the boat. There seem to be plenty of reasons for killing her, but who did the deed? 

Will Lady Bumstead and the SeeMs Detectives find the killer before he/she strikes again? Will Lady Bumstead find a fifth husband? Or will she become another victim?  

Written in the first person by Lady Bumstead this novel will be particularly enjoyed by readers of Agatha Christie and A Man Called Otto. Or anyone interested in whodunnits. 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/After-Husbands-SeeMS-Detective-Agency-ebook/dp/B0D8BK2C34 

https://www.amazon.com/After-Husbands-SeeMS-Detective-Agency-ebook/dp/B0D8BK2C34 

 

Gina has worked as a pilot, physiotherapist, freelance writer and dog breeder. As achild, Gina's parents hated travelling and never went further than Jersey. As a result she becametravel-addicted and spent years bumming around SE Asia, China and Australia, where she worked ina racing stables in Pinjarra, South of Perth. She then lived and worked in various places inSpain, theUSA and London before settling in West Sussex with her husband and dogs. This is her fifth crimenovel in the SeeMs Detective Agency series. This book is set in Vietnam.

https://ginacheyne.com/ 

https://www.instagram.com/ginacheynewriter/ 

https://www.facebook.com/gina.cheyne.books 

https://reedsy.com/discovery/user/ginacheyne 

https://www.tiktok.com/@flyfizzi 

 Excerpt

This is from the prologue of After the Husbands by Gina Cheyne. We do not yet know who the girl is, or why she is running but only that she is being pursued. In the course of the book all these questions are answered.

Prologue: Singapore 1967

Slithering down the fire escape she stopped at the balcony outside her room; their room. The French windows were open, the curtains blowing in and out. Odd. She had closed both window and curtains when she left. 

She stopped, teetering on the metal platform and peeked in. An unknown man was turning over the bed, ripping the sheets. Looking for something? But what? And where is my husband?

The man pulled her Revelation suitcase from under the bed and his parang flashed in the lamp light as he slashed through the hard leather as though it was paper.

Giving an involuntary gasp she stumbled back. Her heel caught in the grid, her shoes clacking.

The man’s head shot up. For a moment she saw his face. Young. Her own age perhaps. European. Then he turned, speaking to someone in the other room.

‘What was that?’ His accent was English.

‘I didn’t hear anything.’ The second voice was too faint to analyse, but they were still speaking in English, not Cantonese.

She didn’t wait for any more but slid down the fire escape and on to the gravel.

Stepping away from the hotel she put out her hands instinctively; for a moment she had slipped into total darkness. Here, in the kampong, it was different from the streets outside the Raffles Hotel where the glare of lights had blinded her. The night was black but not silent: the noise of the cicadas competed with the endless insistence of the jammed traffic. She ran across the gravel and dashed into the choking fumes of the crawling cars.

Backlit by the slow-moving headlights, the men saw her. She heard a cry behind her, low though it was. Almost a whisper. 

‘There she is!’

Then the drumming of their feet as they started to descend the fire escape in the semi-darkness.

Weaving in and out of the virtually stationary traffic, oblivious to the hoots and curses of the drivers, she aimed for the smaller streets opposite.

Entering an alley, she saw night stalls. Slowed her pace, skipping, half-running, moving quickly past the sellers who carried everything from satays to tee shirts. Weaving a little to avoid tripping over the rubbish drinkers threw onto the street behind them, but the smell of rotting vegetables made her pause even before she saw the dead dog. She swallowed and climbed over. She was not planning to escape the parang only to die of some banal infection here amongst the rubbish, and the satay sticks.

Past the stalls, she began running again. Here the edges of the alley crowded together, almost touching now, too narrow for anything more than a bicycle. Her feet felt sore. She was still wearing her evening clothes, her elegant heels. Blisters were better than exposing bare feet to the mounds of rubbish. This was a very different side of town to the one she was used to seeing. Her Singapore had theatres, dances, racecourses, glorious fashions. This was the opposite side of a strangely fetid coin. 

A clang behind her forced her forward like a hurricane pushing on her back. She had not fought out of a life of poverty to die in someone else’s deprivation.

And then, just as her instinct told her she was approaching safer streets ahead, a blockage emerged from the darkness. The lane ended. She was trapped.

She turned. Her pursuers had entered the top of the alley – two men lit up by the streetlights behind. One man still held the parang, which glittered threateningly. She sensed a wave of testosterone as though the men were excited by the chase. Shrouded by the darkness she edged along the wall feeling its roughness.

Something hard cut into her back. A door handle. She forced back the nervous laugh that rose into her throat and pushed the door. She fell into a black space, stumbling down some stone steps. As she hauled herself back onto her feet, a hand shot out and grabbed her arm. Thin fingers like a claw gripped her flesh, hurting the bone. An unrecognisably accented voice said, ‘Quick, here.’

Two claws grabbed her hands in the dark and put them on someone’s waist. Uncertainly she clasped the body, feeling the protruding hip bones. A woman. Malnourished. Chinese or Malay, possibly Eurasian. Too narrow for European. She mirrored the small steps through the total darkness, pairing the girl’s slender thighs, being led to who knows where. Conjoined twins. A curiously close dance where she could no longer see, only feel. 

The journey through the blackness seemed endless. The smell almost overpowering. What was this place? A mixture of putrefaction. Of sweat. Of bodies. Of incense. Of opium.

And then the guide stopped. So quickly her arms slipped around the thin body in a spooning embrace.

The girl opened a wooden door and pushed her into the light. She turned quickly enough to see a lined face. Eurasian. The voice sounded old, but hips and claws had been young, adolescent.

‘Go,’ said the girl brusquely, again in accented English. ‘See it?’

As she turned and looked down the street the door slammed behind her. She saw a flashing sign. She was near the embassy. Thank Heaven. She put her hand in her skirt pocket and felt the sharp outline. Her passport. 

She sighed and accelerated into a sprint she had never achieved at school. Here she would be safe, at least for a while.