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24 December 2024

Harry and the Kraken Harry the Pirate Captain Book 1 by Philip L. Hutson Book Tour! @SilverDaggerBookTours #HarryThePirateCaptain #PhilipHutson

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Harry the hairiest strongest pirate and his intrepid crew are off to battle a Kraken and other hairy adventures

Harry and the Kraken

Harry the Pirate Captain Book 1

by Philip L. Hutson

Genre

Middle Grade Fantasy Adventure 

Harry, the strongest, bravest, and hairiest pirate, is the legendary captain of the Flying Dragon. He is always on the hunt for adventure and treasure but never at the expense of his crew or the target of his pirating.

 One day, while celebrating a large haul in their favorite pub, a stranger stumbles in. He tells them he lost his whole crew in a heroic battle against an evil, man-eating kraken. Harry and his loyal crew don’t hesitate to avenge the crew and remove the threat. Before they even get out to the open ocean they encounter a mysterious stranger. The stranger, who isn’t quite what he seems, keeps the ship's crew guessing what he will do next.

 The flying dragon starts the voyage by trying to avoid detection by spies or pirate hunters. They are surprised to find a Royal Navy pirate hunter in a Spanish port where it does not belong. The crew prepares for a fight and a certain defeat. 

In what appears to be dumb luck the stranger causes a cannon to fire and make an incredible shot that disables a Royal Navy man-o-war. Harry and the Kraken is a lighthearted fantasy and an introduction to Harry’s magical universe.


Excerpt

Micah, Harry’s cabin boy, was in the hold with Bob when the crew brought down the fish Jacques had caught. 

Four crewmen came through the hatch door and lined up on the stairs so that they could try and pass the fish down the stairs. By doing it that way, they thought no one would go sliding down the stairs riding a fish or, worse, a fish riding a sailor. 

On a ship, the ropes and sails are massive and heavy, and moving them takes a lot of strength. Because of that, every sailor on the ship was very strong. So even though the fish were heavy, the sailors would have no problem handling them.

“All right, I’m ready.” The sailor at the top of the stairs yelled up through the hatch. He had his arms out, ready to catch the fish as they were passed down.

The first fish came through the passageway.

“Ooph.” The first fish came through, hitting him in the chest and knocking the air out of him. “Uh Uh. Oh no,” the sailor said, waving his arms to try to keep his balance. He was unsuccessful and fell into the second sailor.

“Ow,” The second sailor said as the fish and sailor hit him.  “Ahhhh,” he said as he fell down the stairs with the fish and first sailor. The ball of fish and sailors hit the third sailor before he knew what was happening.

The last sailor on the stairs, being a little quicker, tried to jump out of the way of the oncoming chaos. “Ouch,” he said as the fish's tail hit him on the backside. The assistance from the fish’s tail ended up propelling him not just a few inches out of the way but now a few feet. He went flying up with his arms cartwheeling and his legs running. His less-than-graceful vault ended with him landing headfirst into a large barrel of salt. 

“What’s all this? Where did the fish come from?” Bob asked when he saw the slapstick comedy routine. “While I appreciate a good show, especially when it involves a tumbling routine, this is not the right place for this. We are trying to work down here.”

Micah and Bob went over to the sailor who was getting a salt facial to see if he wanted to get out or continue to enjoy his sailor’s spa. 

“Would you like help getting out?” Bob asked the sailor.

“Mhm mff,” The sailor responded.

“So, what do you think, Micah? Was that a yes, or was he saying to leave him?” Bob asked.

“I think he’s probably had enough curing time. If we leave him too long, the salt will scrub his face raw.” Micah said.

“Good point. Let's pull him out.” Bob said. 

Micah, being a cabin boy, wasn’t very tall, so pulling him out was not possible for him. “Bob, I’ll hold the barrel while you pull him out. No point in continuing the comedy show.” 

Bob’s day-to-day job entailed moving very heavy objects, so lifting a sailor was not a difficult task. He wrapped his arms around the sailor and started pulling while Micah held onto the barrel rim to keep it from tipping. Bob pulled and pulled and even grunted to make sure everyone knew how hard he was working to get the sailor out. Bob was pulling so hard he lifted the sailor, barrel, and Micah off the deck. He started shaking the sailor up and down to try and loosen him. Micah, still hanging on, was bouncing up and down with every shake.  “I uff. Think uff. He’s uff. Almost uff. Free uff.” Micah said, interspersed with breaths of air as Bob shook him.

“Wow, how did you get so stuck?” Bob said.

“Mmr grs yr,” The sailor said. There was a pop, and the sailor came free. “Hurting me.”

The sailor came out of the barrel. Bob and the sailor trapped in his bear hug went stumbling back. Bob took a couple of steps backward and then fell over a wooden crate, with the sailor landing on him. The barrel crashed down, and Micah landed in a heap. It wobbled and then rolled around on its bottom, trying to decide if it wanted to fall over and spill salt everywhere or land upwards. The barrel made a couple of slow spin rolls, then gave into the whisperings of gravity and fell over. The salt was thrown out, covering the floor of the hold. The last piece of pork that had been in the salt flew out and landed in Bob’s open mouth.

“I didn’t realize you were hungry, Bob. I would have brought some food down with me.” Micah said when he saw the piece of salted pork. “That looks like a very old piece. There must be better pieces around,” Micah said, holding back laughter. He stood up, brushed himself off, and looked over the result of the fun. The way the barrel had landed, the salt had completely missed Micah, so he only had some dust from the floor to remove from his clothing.  

The sailors that had landed at the bottom of the stairs had untangled themselves enough to watch the entertainment by Bob and Micah. They now applauded, showing their appreciation for an improvised comedy routine. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Micah said, taking a bow. 

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Harry Breaks a Jail

Harry the Pirate Captain Book 2 

Legendary pirate captain Harry vows to rescue a crew of pirates from a Spanish prison. During their journey to rescue the prisoners, Harry and his crew encounter a group of displaced people with surprising connections to his quartermaster and their unassuming cargo master. 

As they continue their journey, they rescue a pair of brothers from a ghost ship who, despite their small stature, help save the crew from evil harpies. Just when their hopes are high, everything falls apart, and Harry and the crew are captured.

 Now, Harry must rescue himself, his crew, and the imprisoned pirates he swore to free. "Harry Breaks a Jail" continues the thrilling saga of Harry and his loyal band of pirates.


Excerpt

The ship swayed a bit from a wave hitting the ship broadside.

“Who is at the helm?” Bob asked.

“Titus …” Harry said as he trailed off in the middle of the answer.

“Hmm, I’m hearing a …” Bob said. Another wave hit the ship. “What is going on up there, Harry?” Bod asked. 

“Harry? Harry!” Bob said with a bit of concern. Harry had stood up and now was standing with a blank look on his face. Bob slapped him. “Snap out of it, Harry.” 

The slap seemed to snap Harry out of it. His eyes seemed to change a little. The sudden sting of the strike caused just enough anger to bring out a little of his bear form. “Harry, I think we are under attack by the harpies. If you can keep that anger just simmering, you will not be affected by them. I need you to defend the crew from the creatures. They will be slow to attack until they are sure that the crew is under their control. I will send up Colson to help keep you from coming under their influence. Keep him close to you and keep him singing. You two should be able to keep them off the crew until I get up there to help.”

Harry was a little slow in moving. He was still trying to understand what was happening. 

“Get up top and defend the crew from those ugly, greasy things!”  Bob yelled, punctuated by another punch to his solar plexus.

“I’ve got it,” Harry said with more bear growl than human speech. 

Bob ran out of the galley and toward the armory, which was on the same deck they were.

“Colson, where are you?” Bob yelled when he ran.

“I’m back here,” Colson said from behind a rack holding a bunch of spears.

“Get out here. I need your help defending the ship,” Bob said.

“ I don't want to leave here. I know what those things do, and I can’t fight them,” Colson said.

“I don't need you to fight. I need you to sing.” Bob said.

“I can’t sing. You heard my brother, I’m a horrible singer.” Colson said.

“I’m counting on that. I need you to sing the worst you can. Get up there, hide behind Harry, and sing your heart out,” Bob said. “Go now. I need to get your brother. Now run!”

“Yes, sir,” Colson said as he ran out of the armory.

Bob ran to the stairs to go down.

“Ok, I can do that,” Colson said to Bob’s back.

Colson ran to the hatch where Harry was just opening it to go up top. 

“Stay behind me. I will protect you while you sing. I don’t understand how your singing will help, but if it's that bad, it might keep me from falling under their control. If I look like I’m wavering, kick me hard.” Harry said to Colson.

“Aye, Captain,” Colson said with a shaky voice.

Hearing the fear in his voice, Harry stopped and looked at him. “Colson, I'm afraid, but I know that you and I are the only ones that can save the lives of the sailors up there, so I am going up there. I hope you can find the courage to go up and fight with me.” Harry said.

“Yes, captain, I will go, even though I am terrified,” Colson said, taking a deep breath to find his courage.

Harry opened the hatch and went up with a roar that seemed to shake the entire ship. 

It blew the harpies back out over the ocean, giving Harry an area clear of the filthy things. There were a few sailors prone on the deck where they had fallen, and some were still standing in a daze. Harry ran to where the largest group to protect them.  

Colson followed close behind him. He bounced off Harry’s backside when he stopped suddenly. “Uhff,” Colson said, landing on his butt.

“You don’t need to kick me yet. I’m not affected by them right now, but you will have to kick a lot harder than that,” Harry said, not turning around. “You can start caterwauling, I mean singing.” 

“Oh, right. Wow, they are ugly, and they smell like a used chamber pot—not just one chamber pot, but all of them I’ve ever had to clean on the Royal’s ship all at once,” Colson said.

“Uhm, are you going to sing? They are returning, and they might get control of me,” Harry said.

The harpies were getting braver, and they were circling closer, singing their horrible song. Their voices sounded like the screech of a raven combined with the yell of a cat having their tail stepped on. As the magic extended out from the harpies, the air looked wavy and thick, like looking through a window that someone had spread Vaseline all over.

“Right, sing,”  Colson said.

“Ring around the roses, 

Pocket full of posies,

Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down.” Colson screeched.

Colson’s singing lived up to the hype; even that simple song was terrible, really terrible. It was so bad that Harry stopped for a moment and looked over his shoulder in disbelief. The effects of Colson's singing extended out. When it encountered the air that was transformed by the harpies’ magic, a thick, clear, viscous substance fell out of the air, leaving it clean. The sailors near the rescuers now looked like they were fighting the harpies’ control.

“Wow, your, uhm, singing is working,” Harry said. “Keep it up. I just wish I had something to plug up my ears.”

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“Harry and the Kraken”, started out as a response to the request “Tell me a story” from my grandson. He then gave me the parameters of a story about pirates and a Kraken. Then when I asked what the captain’s name should be, he pointed at my hairy legs and said “Harry”.

I started to tell him the story but ran out of time. With a promise to finish it and send an email to his mother with the rest, I started working on it. I originally intended it to be a simple one-page story. I realized it would be much more than that when I got to chapter 4 and hadn’t really gotten into the story.

The illustrations in the first book, “Harry and the Kraken” are by my grandson and by some brothers who were early beta readers. The story is for my grandson primarily so to improve it I had some middle-graders (the brothers included) read it and give me feedback. Once the brothers read it they wanted to add more illustrations.

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

$20 Amazon giftcard ( 1 winner, WW), 

Print Copy of Harry and the Kraken (5 winners, US only), 

Print Copy of Harry Breaks a Jail  (5 winners, US only),

a Rafflecopter giveaway

23 December 2024

Parson Scorned Devils MC, Book Three by J. Hali Steele New Release Books Tour!

 #gayromance #romance #romanticcomedy #ChangelingPress #smut #spicybooks #sizzlingreads #lgbtq #shifterromance #winterrreads #booklovers #smutlovers #smutreaders #contemporary #christmas #agegap

Title: Parson

Series: Scorned Devils MC, Book Three

Author: J. Hali Steele

Publisher:  Changeling Press

Release Date: December 20, 2024

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

Genres: Action Adventure, Contemporary Women’s Fiction, New Releases, Romance, Suspense

Themes: Age Gap (Older Man), Christmas, Gay, Holiday Themes, MC Romance

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 117

Add to Goodreads

Description

Building a hundred walls will not prevent Parson ripping away each brick to get to the man who is his.

Parson: Raised in a religious family who accepted Parson’s homosexuality, he struggles to understand Langston Gillman’s inability to embrace who he is, what he feels. Pars put off patching with the Scorned Devils MC in fear of losing his lover. Never again. Parson will patch with the club and he means to have the man he desires. Pars vows to pursue Lang until he stands vulnerable and ready to surrender.

Langston: Bullied as a child, Langston has reached the age of fifty-two loathing his gayness. He navigates life by planning every moment of each day. Still, occasionally he is unable to rid himself of his need for a man. Unfortunately, Lang desires bad boys. When one particular bad boy rides into his life on a Harley, his presence leaves Lang confused and angry. Langston finds himself yearning for more with Parson. Problem is the biker not only refuses to cut ties with Scorned Devils, the local MC, he will not be hidden by Langston.

Rules are made to be broken, and Parson will not live his life in denial. He intends to turn Lang’s world upside down, no matter the consequences.

Excerpt

Parson (Scorned Devils MC 3)
J. Hali Steele
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 J. Hali Steele

Pa

Today he sat besirson

Calmness was the keystone of Parson's life.de his cousin, Mark, in a pew near the back of The Church of the Trinity Episcopal church, praying to find rekindle that trait. "I'm not asking for confession, and I don't need a priest."

Mark Turner was a deacon and while he could hear confession, only the priest could give absolution. Parson didn't need that. "I'm not seeking the sacrament, because I've not done anything I regret."

The deaths of the Bayside Specter president and VP had been a necessity, a matter of survival, and Pars experienced no remorse over the sordid affair.

"Good, because Father Tyson is preparing for Sunday service." Mark stared. "What do you want, Randall? Sorry, you prefer Parson."

"Right. Nothing, man. I'm torn about the relationship I'm in. Or was in."

"You're not living with -- what's his name, Langston? -- anymore?"

"No." Pars had done the one thing Langston Gillman would never accept. "He's being unreasonable."

"Have you spoke truthfully with him regarding your feelings?"

Mark was aware -- hell, the whole family knew -- Parson was openly gay. None held his relationships as a sin, believing his love life was between him and God.

"Does he know you love him?"

"No." Parson twisted on the hard bench to better see Mark. "What makes you say that?"

"Lord help me. You're thirty-one and you've never been in a relationship this long. What else could it be?"

Parson ignored Mark's comment because, damn, Parson hadn't thought about that. Yeah, he cared greatly for Lang, but love? "He kicked me out."

"Let me guess -- because you belong to the motorcycle club that runs around, or as some believe, runs, the city of Coatesville."

"He doesn't like that I'm a member of the Scorned Devils MC, but I can't allow him to dictate who I can hang out and be friends with. Because of his feelings, I put off patching." Parson picked at his fingernails. "Done playing games. I am who I am. Patched last week."

"I see."

Sunday parishioners started entering. Parson still needed to see Dread and talk about meeting with the city officials at Cutters tomorrow regarding plans for the Christmas toy drive. "Hey, thanks for letting me vent."

"Wish you weren't an only child." Mark sighed. "Not sure I was much help, but if you ever need to talk to someone aside from..."

"They're my brothers, Mark. They'd never see harm come to me."

"That's what concerns me. What lengths would your brothers go to in keeping you safe? I'm not blind to what happens with motorcycle clubs, Pars." Mark stood. "I've heard about unsavoriness taking place in our community."

Talk of the Specters' bikes being destroyed at the Midway and rumors behind the incident had finally died down. There were other disputes, and if the perpetrators were wrong, yeah, they got beat down. Without knowing what his cousin might have heard, Parson couldn't claim all the stories were lies. He wasn't going to get in to it now. Glancing down at his watch, Parson headed for the door. "Damn, Mark, I gotta run."

When Parson reached Hell's Lair, the gate sprung open immediately. Damn Spinner, anyway. He was always on the computer, watching the comings and goings of everyone. Shit, it was Spin's turn to keep an eye out for unusual activity around the Scorned Devils MC compound. Spin hadn't come back to his place last night which, meant he'd camped out in the loft. As annoying as Spinner could be, he kept Parson's thoughts from drifting to Langston.

Parson spied Dread with his feet propped on the desk as he entered the office. "Hey, man. What's up?"

"Nothing much." Dread scrutinized Parson. "You're early for a Sunday."

Pars usually hit the clubhouse after church. Today, he'd skipped services. "I was hoping to talk to you before you got busy." Sitting across from Dread, he sighed loudly. "Is there another place we can hold meetings with the city council?"

"For years those fuckers have let us do the all the organizing for this event. Mostly they sit at meetings pretending they want to be there. They take credit at the end of the parade when all we get to say is -- Santa Claus has come to town." Dread studied Pars. "Hey, it's for the less fortunate children. Shit, we're the local MC some of those same members would like to see disappear. Don't really want them in my restaurant unless they're paying customers, but it is what it is, Pars. Sure as hell not having them here if that's what you're insinuating."

"Wouldn't expect that, but there are other places in town."

"None I want to be involved with."

"Look, Dread, Cutters is..."

"Langston is off on Sundays and Mondays. You won't have to deal with any shit."

Parson's chest deflated when he relaxed against the chair back. He wasn't sure Dread noticed. "Great."

Standing, the VP walked to the office door and closed it. "No need for everyone to hear your business."

Fuck, Pars was going to get an earful.

"I don't know what happened and I don't really give a damn. I know Langston's been a prick this last month." He stood right in front of Pars. "I see the fire in your eyes but I'm not the one you want to go toe to toe with today, or any day, about me calling a prick a prick. He's been hell to deal with." Backing up a step, he glared. "Fuck Langston. Or don't. Whatever you choose, straighten your shit out because not every meet will be held on Monday. We have to consider the needs of a lot of people. If you can't handle this, let me know now."

"I got this."

"Perfect."

Pars got up to leave but Dread stopped him. "Another MC is joining us. They don't have a drive where they are."

"Who?"

"The Immoral Sinners out of Harrisburg."

"Don't know any of them well, but I do hear they are unruly as hell."

"Yeah, I know. They're small, but troublesome."

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

A former MC associate, J. Hali Steele loves anything with wheels, including motorcycles, classic automobiles, and race cars. A retired winning ex-quarter mile drag racer, J. Hali often angles to get her butt back in the driver’s seat!

J. Hali is a multi-published, best-selling author of romance in Contemporary MC, ReligErotica, Paranormal, Fantasy, and LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters, and angels collide – and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap and a cup of her favorite beverage of the moment.

Website | Facebook | X | Goodreads

Giveaway

One lucky winner will receive a $10.00 Changeling Press Gift Code! 


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21 December 2024

The Rare Books Cozy Mysteries by Daphne Silver November 25, 2024 - January 3, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

The Rare Books Cozy Mysteries by Daphne Silver Banner

CRIME AND PARCHMENT

Rare books librarian Juniper Blume knows this much… an ancient Celtic manuscript shouldn’t be in a Maryland cemetery. But that’s exactly what her brother-in-law claims.

Last year, Juniper saw the 1,200-year-old Book of Kells in Ireland. She learned how their bejeweled covers were stolen centuries ago, never to be seen again. So how could they have ended up in Rose Mallow, a small Chesapeake Bay town? Being Jewish, the Book of Kells might not be her sacred text, but as a rare books librarian, the ancient book is still sacred to her, making it important to Juniper to find out the truth.

Rose Mallow is the same place where Juniper used to summer with her sister Azalea and their grandmother Zinnia, known as Nana Z. Ever since Nana Z passed away, Juniper’s avoided returning, but her curiosity is greater than her grief, so she heads down in her vintage convertible with her rescue dog Clover.

Juniper discovers that her sister Azalea has transformed their grandmother’s Queen Anne style mansion into the Wildflower Inn, backing up to the Chesapeake Bay. Although Juniper isn’t much of a cook, Azalea has kept their grandmother’s legacy alive, filling the house with the smells of East European Jewish treats, like sweet kugels and tzimmes cake. Will coming back here feel like returning home or fill Juniper with a deeper sorrow? Can she apologize to her sister for not being there when she was needed most?

THE TELL-TALE HOMICID/

Rare books librarian Juniper Blume lands her dream job: creating a new museum in her Chesapeake Bay town of Rose Mallow, Maryland. But on her very first day, she makes a shocking discovery - a dead man clutching a book by Edgar Allan Poe, stolen from the collections!

As Juniper gets closer to cracking the coded message hidden inside the book, she realizes someone is desperate to keep its literary secrets buried… even if that means burying her too.

Dressed in her signature vintage style with rescue pup Clover by her side, the fearless bookworm must hunt down the culprit before becoming the next victim. But can she solve the case without jeopardizing a budding romance with her boss, the dashing Leo Calverton? And can she help her sister Azalea perfect their grandmother's legendary blintz recipe before the Rose Mallow Festival?

A delightfully deadly page-turner, The Tell-Tale Homicide continues the charming Rare Books Cozy Mystery series by Agatha award-winning author Daphne Silver. Fans of Kate Carlisle and Jenn McKinlay will love tagging along with the whip-smart, book-loving Juniper on her adventures.

Series Details:

Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Series:The Rare Books Cozy Mysteries
Series Links: Amazon | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt from Crime and Parchment:

CHAPTER 1

My 1965, robin’s egg blue convertible backfired as I parked in front of the Wildflower Inn. The noise set off Clover barking in the backseat. Not exactly the quiet homecoming I’d hoped for. I jumped out of my Karmann-Ghia – or “KG” as I’d nicknamed her – to check under the hood, hoping I wouldn’t need to get the roadster serviced yet again. No idea where that money would come from.

A screaming, ranting madwoman poured out of a neighboring house. Maybe in her late seventies, she brandished a large umbrella. I dropped the hood to find the umbrella pointing at me. Clover – all twenty pounds of him – jumped out and started growling.

“Easy, boy,” I said.

“You shoot something off, Missy? Here to cause trouble? Because I’m on the board of the Friends of the Rose Mallow Police.” the woman said. She wore a perfectly fitted Mamie Eisenhower pink skirt suit with enormous pearls – straight out of the 1950s. Her white bouffant billowed around her head. She reminded me of a researcher I’d helped earlier that day at the Library of Congress. That woman had been a murder mystery author looking for books about early detectives. This woman looked like she wanted to murder someone – namely me.

Suddenly I remembered her: Cordelia Sullivan. She was my late grandmother’s arch-nemesis. After my Nana Z had moved to Rose Mallow, they’d competed to be the president of almost every board in town. Nana Z had called it a “friendly rivalry to garner the most civic goodwill,” but I don’t think Cordelia saw it that way. To her, the Blume family were – and always would be – outsiders in her perfect Chesapeake Bay town.

“What’s going on?” My sister Azalea appeared on the wraparound porch of the Wildflower Inn. Although I was two years younger at twenty-eight, she looked like my twin, except that her hair was much longer and darker than my slanted bob. She pushed her bangs back and brought a hand up to her forehead when she saw me. “Juniper? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Well, I…” My words faltered. I’d spent the past hour driving and trying to figure out how to tell Azalea about why I’d finally returned, but every time I tested the words out loud, they failed. Clover had listened with confused curiosity before giving up and falling asleep.

“You know there’s a noise ordinance,” Cordelia said as she waved her umbrella around. Clover barked at the offending instrument. However, I think he wanted to play with it more than anything else. Occasional growling aside, he’s not exactly attack dog material.

“Yes, Mrs. Sullivan. Not until 10 p.m., and it’s not even 8 o’clock yet.” Azalea’s exasperated voice led me to suspect that she’d had this conversation more than once.

“Hmph. I plan on taking your ‘halfway house’ to the zoning board. What a travesty to do to our pristine historic district. You know I’m president of the Rose Mallow Historical Society.” Cordelia wagged a finger at my sister. I closed my eyes before rolling them.

“Mama! Mama!” A young bundle of legs and a mop of nearly black hair appeared next to Azalea on the wraparound porch. I couldn’t believe how big Violet had grown. She was almost four years old now.

She latched onto Azalea’s legs and held on tightly. I wanted to run up to my niece and smother her in hugs and kisses, but I wasn’t sure how I’d be received. Clover apparently did too because he took off after her. The little girl squealed with laughter as he covered her in licks.

“Go inside, Vi. It’s past your bedtime,” Azalea said. She turned to us. “I don’t have time for this. As you can see, I have a young child requiring my attention. Plus, I have a house full of guests. Mrs. Sullivan, it sounds like you have a plan in place to handle my zoning and noise issues. I’ll leave you to it. And Juniper, if you’re here, then let’s get you inside.”

Violet ran inside, letting Clover follow. I took that as a positive sign, so I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and followed quickly, as Cordelia monitored us. Her umbrella remained held out in the air. She reminded me of Don Quixote in pearls.

“You’ve done an incredible job restoring the place,” I said as I walked across the perfectly manicured lawn. Azalea had recently converted Nana Z’s Queen Anne style mansion into a boutique hotel. After so many years away, I hadn’t been sure what to expect.

She eyed me with uncertainty. I could tell she was debating whether to chew me out for not being here for any of the work, let alone the hotel’s grand opening earlier in the spring. But my sister is much better at maturity than I am.

“It’s been a journey. Not an undertaking for the faint of heart. Repairing that turret alone had me almost give up and put up the for sale sign.” Azalea pointed up to the three-story round tower protruding from the side of the house. As a kid, I used to pretend Nana Z’s home was a castle and fought many dragons racing up that tower.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I said ‘Almost,’” she replied with a laugh.

“I love how bright the yellow siding is. I bet that color really pops in the morning against the Chesapeake Bay.” I walked up the stairs to the wraparound, past garden beds bursting with purple coneflowers and Black-Eyed Susans, Maryland’s state flower.

“You know what’s funny is how much I hated canary yellow when we were little. Every time we came here, I’d always wished Nana Z’s house was more like Cordelia Sullivan’s with her dark greens and rich reds. But now that Nana Z’s gone, I couldn’t stand to change it,” Azalea said.

“But it’s such a cheery color. Why would you want something so drab as Cordelia’s place? ” I asked. As a kid, Cordelia’s house had been as scary as the owner. Losing a ball into her yard meant it was never coming back. Neighborhood kids claimed her house was haunted.

Azalea shrugged. “Yeah, the yellow’s growing on me.”

“You kept this mess?” I said when I spotted the clunky clay mezuzah on the doorpost. I’d made the case at Jewish day camp as a kid. Inside was a tiny parchment scroll inscribed with biblical verses in Hebrew. The painted clay design was supposed to be a bunch of zinnias in honor of Nana Z’s first name, but it looked more like a lumpy mud puddle than a bright firework of flowers.

Azalea shrugged with a smile. “Oh, there are a few of my own masterpieces on some of the other doors inside. Maybe I’ll get Violet to make some new ones.”

The inside was as exquisite as the outside. I don’t think my memories did the place justice. The stained glass above the front door also sported Black-Eyed Susans, while those above each window featured a different native wildflower.

Azalea had kept our grandmother’s lush red carpets with ornate gold and white floral patterns. Polished mahogany inset panels gleamed from the walls. A staircase with beautifully carved spindles fed into the large lobby.

On the left was a parlor that Azalea had turned into the registration space. On the right was the library, overflowing with leather-bound books. It was in this room I had discovered my love for stories and books as a child. I wouldn’t have become a rare books librarian at The Library of Congress without Nana Z’s library. I sighed, wishing things were going better there. Nana Z would have been proud of me, but my job had become so difficult since I lost that promotion to Greyson. A little birdie had told me not to expect another chance for a long time, which meant I was stuck with someone Nana Z would have described as a “shlemiel.”

A narrow hallway disappeared between the registration area and the staircase, which led back to the dining room and kitchen. I remembered how those overlooked the back garden, public boardwalk, and the Chesapeake Bay. I could imagine how ornately she’d decorated the upstairs bedrooms.

Clover sniffed at everything in sight. I monitored him, but he was having a grand time exploring. Just not too grand of a time. I tried sending the message to him telepathically. He lifted his nose at me, as if to say, “Who, me?”

“I love that you hung some of Nana Z’s watercolors,” I said. My eyes grew misty as I gazed at her paintings of native flowers, including dwarf crested irises, ironweed, columbine, and, of course, the rose mallow for which the Maryland town was named. I shook my head, pushing the grief down deep.

A teenager hunched over a thick book sat at the registration desk. She had long, bluish-green locs that looked beautiful against her sepia brown skin. Her large glasses were rimmed in a matching turquoise color. She looked up from the book and said, “Sorry, Azalea. Vi got away from me.”

The teen didn’t seem alarmed, but then again, neither did Azalea. I wondered if this happened frequently. Maybe Vi was a regular escape artist. Nana Z would have been pleased. I held back my smile.

“I’m Juniper, Azalea’s sister,” I said to the teen as I extended my hand.

“You have a sister?” she asked Azalea with a look of surprise. Then she recovered, shook my hand, and said, “I’m Keisha Douglass. I’ve been helping Azalea with the Wildflower Inn. But, uh, we’re all booked up tonight.”

“I’ll figure it out,” said Azalea. “Although giving me some sort of a heads up you were finally coming would’ve been nice, Juniper.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled awkwardly. Clover raced over to the desk to check out Keisha. The desk was higher than him, so he couldn’t quite see atop. Fortunately, she came around to pet him. “Oh wow! A dog? We’re allowing dogs now?”

I turned to check with Azalea, who massaged her temples. She breathed deeply but then simply shrugged. Great. Not only had I shown up out of the blue, but I hadn’t checked to make sure pets were allowed. I was pretty sure I knew the root cause of her sudden headache. I smiled sheepishly.

“No worries, Keisha. Clover’s the exception to the no dogs rule. Vi’s fine. I’m going to put her to bed,” Azalea said, as she ushered the bouncing kid down the narrow hallway and turned abruptly right before the kitchen. Unsure of what to do, I followed. There was a small sitting room there, which she had reconfigured into a bedroom. It was a tight space. Azalea caught me staring. “It’s a temporary solution. I’m still working on updating the Carriage House in the back garden. Once I’m finished, Vi and I will move there.”

Vi ran around the room, fighting Azalea’s attempts to return her to bed. My sister paused mid-chase and said, “This may take a bit. You know where the kitchen is. Why don’t you go there, start a kettle of tea, and I’ll meet you there when we’re done? I was getting ready to pull a kugel out of the oven anyway.”

That was my sister, always gently commanding, whether it was an unruly neighbor, an energetic preschooler, or me, the surprise guest. I thought of her like a duck. Above the water, she appeared to be smoothly sailing along, but below, it was a mad fury of management to keep everything afloat.

“A kugel?” I asked with excitement. Nana Z had made plenty of the baked noodle casseroles each summer. Sometimes they were savory, but more often, they were sweet, made with lokshen, or egg noodles, and various cheeses.

Azalea looked pleased. “I’ve been trying to perfect her recipe. You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

I knew immediately she meant Nana Z. As we headed down the hallway, I caught the aroma of the decadent noodle pudding. I could already detect the cinnamon she’d used. My eyes watered slightly at the memories the smell produced.

The kitchen was both familiar and new. No longer was it the 1890s meets 1970s chic that Nana Z had employed. Azalea had replaced most of the yellowed appliances with updated stainless-steel, upgraded the laminate countertops to granite, and removed the harvest gold wallpaper to paint the in vogue “greige” along with a matching subway tile backsplash. Someone had been watching a lot of HGTV. But it was still Nana Z’s kettle on the stovetop, her handcrafted cookie jar on the counter, and a variety of favorite teas in the same cabinet location. Being here felt like being at home, but only if that home had been completely renovated when you weren’t looking.

The view out back remained the same, looking past a blooming garden of blue hydrangeas and the small Carriage House, to the public boardwalk separating the garden from the Chesapeake Bay. On good days, you could make out the shoreline on the Eastern Shore. Being early June, the sun was beginning to set beyond the Bay’s edge, so the view became a Tonalist painting with its atmospheric blues, grays, and browns.

Clover found an embroidered tea towel to play with. I tried pulling it away from him, but he decided that meant the game was afoot. I dug into my suitcase and found his food. I borrowed a couple of low rimmed bowls to fill with his dinner and water. He quickly abandoned the towel for something to eat.

According to the timer, the kugel still had a few minutes left in the oven. I caught the kettle before it whistled and filled up two mugs. Given the abundance of Darjeeling black tea, I assumed it was still Azalea’s favorite and prepped it for both of us. Within a few minutes, she came in, plopped down on an empty seat, and dropped her head to the table. I sat up in alarm, afraid that my cool as nails sister might be about to cry.

***

Excerpt from Crime and Parchment by Daphne Silver. Copyright 2023 by Daphne Silver. Reproduced with permission from Daphne Silver. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Daphne Silver

Daphne Silver is the Agatha Award winning author of the Rare Books Cozy Mystery Series. Her first novel, Crime and Parchment (Level Best Books, 2023), won the Agatha for Best First Mystery Novel. Her latest book, The Tell-Tale Homicide, comes out November 2024 from Level Best Books. She’s worked more than twenty years in museums and symphonies and has the great fortune of being married to a librarian. When she’s not writing, she’s drawing and painting. She lives in Maryland with her family. Although she’s not much of a baker, she won’t ever turn down a sweet lokshen kugel.

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20 December 2024

Wind From the Abyss The Silistra Quartet Book 3 By Janet Morris Book Tour! #WindFromTheAbyss #SilistraQuartet #JanetMorris @PerseidPublishing @perseid_press

Estri’s life is shattered. Her name, her memories, her past—gone. Pulled into a world of cosmic intrigue and divine manipulation, she must navigate a realm where gods test her resolve. 

Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

By Janet Morris

Genre

Dystopian SciFi Fantasy Adventure 

Dystopia. Novel series #2 of 4. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris' classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman's quest for self-realization in a distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler ....

She is descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods themselves.

Praise for Janet Morris' Silistra Quartet:

"The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe." -- Fred Pohl

"Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." -- Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris' Silsitra series." -- Anne K. Kahler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

This Perseid Press Author's Cut Edition is revised and expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and covers designed for these premium editions.

**On Sale for Only $2.99! **

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**Don’t miss the rest of the Silistra Quartet!**

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and has since published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She has contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. 

She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages.

 In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author's Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet says: 'People often ask what book to read first. I recommend "I, the Sun" if you like ancient history; "The Sacred Band," a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; "Lawyers in Hell" if you like historical fantasy set in hell; "Outpassage" if you like hard science fiction; "High Couch of Silistra" if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author's Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.'

#fantasybooks #epicfantasy #scifibooks #sciencefiction #dystopianbooks #romantasy #OnSale endations #BookBlogger #Bookstagram #bookish #bookclub #MustRead @SilverDaggerBookTours #Writersofinstagram #AmReading #BookPromo #AuthorPromo #writingcommunity #readerscommunity 

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[excerpt from Wind from the Abyss]

Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns then, I am adding this preface, though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the events described by “Khys’ Estri” (as I have come to think of the shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not be withheld from you as they were from me.

I knew myself not: I was Estri because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression of Khys’ humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences, my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea, then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen so of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys’ puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing retribution at the dharen’s hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper’s city — and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed: siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum, whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the dharen Khys bespeak it, himself . . .


I. In Mourning for the Unrecollected

The hulion hovered, wings aflap, at the window, butting its black wedge of a head against the pane. Its yellow eyes glowed cruelly, slit-pupiled. Its white fangs, gleaming, were each as long as my forearm.

I screamed. Its tufted ears, flat against its head, twitched. Again and again, toothed mouth open wide, it battered at the window, roaring. Once more I screamed and ran stumbling to the far wall of my prison. I pounded upon the locked doors with my fists, pressing myself against the wood. Sobbing, I turned to face it. The beast’s ears flickered at the sound. Those jaws, which could have snapped me in half, closed. It cocked its head.

I trembled, caught in its gaze. I could retreat no farther. I sank to my knees, moaning, against the door frame.

The beast gave one final snort. Those wings, with a spread thrice the length of a tall man, flapped decisively, and it was gone. When the hulion was no more than a speck in the greening sky, I rose clumsily, shaking, to collect the papers I had strewn across the mat in my terror. They were the arrar Carth’s papers, those he had forgotten in his haste to answer his returning master’s summons.

I knelt upon my hands and knees on the silvery pile, that I might gather the pages and replace them in the tas-sueded folder before Carth returned.

Foolish, I thought to myself, that I had so feared the hulion. It could not have gotten in. I could not get out: It could not get in. Once I had thrown a chair at that impervious clarity. The chair had splintered. With one stout thala leg, as thick as my arm, had I battered upon that window. All I had accomplished was the transformation of chair into kindling. The hulion, I chided myself, could have fared no better.

Hulions, upon occasion, have been known to eat man-flesh. Hulions, furred and winged, fanged and clawed, are the servants of the dharen who rules Silistra. I had had no need to fear. Yet, I thought as I gathered the arrar Carth’s scattered papers, hulions are fearsome. Perhaps if I had been able, as others are, to hear its mind’s intent, I would have felt differently. My fingers, numb and trembling, fumbled for the delicate sheets.

One in particular caught my eye. It was in Carth’s precise hand and headed: “Pre-assessment Monitoring of the Arrar Sereth. Enar Fourth Second, 25,697.”

I had met, once, the arrar Sereth. Upon my birthday, Macara fourth seventh, in the year ’696 had I met him, that night my child had been conceived. I had read of his exploits. He frightened me, killer of killers, enforcer for the dharen, he who wore the arrar: chald of the messenger. Sereth, scarred and lean and taut like some carnivore, who had loved the Keepress Estri, my namesake, and with her brought great change to Silistra in the pass Amarsa, 25,695 — yes, I had met him.

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