Possibilities Kira Stone Book Tour and Giveaway!

 

Title: Possibilities

Author: Kira Stone

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

Release Date: May 13, 2022

Heat Level: 5 - Erotica

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 19 pages

Genre: Erotica, BDSM, Dark Fantasy, Paranormal, SciFi, Dark Desire, Age Gap, Gay

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Synopsis

Choices... Neal dives into a secluded pool hoping to find release for his aching body and his troubled mind. Instead, he finds Saul. The scribe is everything Neal could dream of -- and yet he knows he dares not pursue his desires, for Saul is a Scribe. Saul wants Neal, but not in servitude. Even a slave can make choices, and Neal chooses to make love to the man who opens his mind -- and his heart.

Excerpt

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2010 Kira Stone

Moonlight strokes the rocks and vegetation bracketing the waterfall with its ghostly fingers. Crystal clear water tumbles from one shallow pool to another, tugged down by gravity's inexorable grip. Flowers bend in the gentle breeze, and nocturnal creatures add to nature's nightly chorus as they go about their lives. It is perfect. It is peaceful.

It is a place where possibilities are born... although it would take me some time to realize it.

Although I've travelled past this location many times before, this particular spot is unfamiliar to me. It is, however, a welcome sight. I am weary and need a place to rest for the night. The pool looks so inviting. Perhaps a swim before bedding down would help erase the strains of the day.

Rushing water stifles my tired groan as I remove my silks. Little more than scraps of black fabric to cover the most male part of me, held together by a single braided strand of rope. Even so, I treat them with care for they are all I have to shield me against the elements so I set them on a rock beside the water.

The journey to this place, this moment in time, has not been an easy one. My body bears the scars of battles fought, some still fresh. See there, across my wrist, the lines of red? A demon who nearly bereft me of my life left those marks with his razor sharp claws. I can't decide whether to praise the gods or curse them for sending the district's healer along to save me when they did.

My spirit is equally marred. Hope has crawled into some dark corner of my soul. I dine on regrets and guilt, a meal that doesn't sustain a man of thirty-eight for very long. And yet, here I am, still living and breathing. I don't know why.

I ponder this as I move toward the edge of the lowest pool. The water is warmer than I expect given the lack of the sun's warming rays, and I find myself drawn into its embrace. At its deepest, it rises no higher than my waist. I swim the breadth of it several times before finding a rock near the middle to sprawl on.

My limbs dangle loosely, toying with the surface, and I stare up at the heavens with the three moons of Trinity hanging low in the sky, searching for answers.

This is how he must have first seen me, looking like some debauched sprite fallen to ground.

I take no notice of the stranger in my midst at first. Slowly, he colors my world. Sound grows clearer, flowers perfume the night air, and everything around me begins to hum with a vibrancy as though it's newly awakened to life.

I sit up and spy a ripple of midnight blue, just a shade paler than the sky, along the edge of the pool. He stops moving, and his cloak settles around him. Just as my surroundings burst into full life, so does he. Dark blue cloth wraps his rugged frame from neck to knee. His mahogany hair curls back from his face. Black boots and gloves cover his feet and hands. Though a handsome man by any rational person's account, I remain unfazed.

Until I reach his eyes.

How is it possible to see one's soul through their eyes? It's a myth I never believed until I met this stranger. Although I've always been partial to blue, it's not the rich color that holds me captive.

It has little to do with the expression on his face, which seems faintly amused at coming upon me bathing in the moonlight as he had. Nor is it the air of danger and sexual prowess that he exudes. No, it is the reflection of a lifetime of experiences, good and bad, hovering in those blue, blue eyes that I cannot look away from.

Oddly, I'm slightly ashamed of my nakedness for the first time in my humble life. He is the only Master in sight; I am merely a servant boy. I have nothing that he does not give me, including my life. Appearing naked before him should be as natural as breathing and yet I long for some form of cover, as if his eyes might delve into me too deeply otherwise.

Slowly I recall my duty and slip from the stone, back into the water. I swim across to him, kneeling in the shallows when I reach the water's edge. Still I cannot look away from his face and those startling eyes. "Master, may this boy be of service to you?"

He breathes deep, his broad chest expanding, before answering in a commanding yet gentle tenor. "Tell me your name, boy."

"This one is called Neal, Master."

"And you may call me Saul."

I admit I'm not often at a loss for words, but that request stopped all thought from forming in my brain. A Master wants me, a slave, to refer to him by name? Unheard of! "Master, are you sure?"

He laughs and the sound is more cleansing to me than the crystal clear water. "When we are alone, yes. I want to hear my name from your lips."

He is Master. I am slave. I shouldn't question his requests. And yet... "But Master, I am only a boy. I have no right to speak your name."

"You have whatever rights I give you, and I grant you permission to use my name." He cocks his head to the side in consideration, then adds, "For tonight."

His expression hasn't changed, but there's something in his manner that convinces me he is serious. I didn't wish to cross him, for even one of the scribe caste could be dangerous if provoked. "Yes, Mas -- Yes, Saul. May this boy be of service to you?"

"Perhaps it is I who am here to serve you," he suggests with a smile.

A great and mighty Master would lower himself to serve a humble boy? It had never been done before in my knowledge and I can only think of one reason for him to suggest it. "Is this a test for me, to see if I will behave properly?"

"No, Neal. It is merely a suggestion."

It's the first of many possibilities he shows me this night. Even now my body trembles with the memories of that first spectacular glimpse of what could be.

"How would you... Boy can... This is not..." No thought would complete itself in my brain before a new one birthed.

Saul laughs again as he presses his finger to my lips. "Easy, Neal. Do not hurt yourself."

I search the depth of his eyes for some explanation for what is happening. All I find are more questions. "Saul..."

With a smile on his face, he commands, "Come with me."

Purchase

Changeling Press LLC | Amazon

 

Meet the Author

Kira Stone lives in a warm cave tucked away in the remote Scottish Highlands, where a small band of ever-changing heroes serves as company. As they relax in front of a roaring fire, demons dance in leather pants and angels stroke tunes from the harp strings, while the Fae stop in to share tales from other worlds. Bound by pen and imagination, these are the folk who wait to greet you from the pages of Kira's stories. Find out more on their website.

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Moss Manor by @marthasweeneyauthor Book Tour and Giveaway! @indiesage_pr #marthasweeney

 

Moss Manor

by Martha Sweeney Publication Date: May 10, 2022 Genres: Historical Romance, Historical Fiction, Romance

Purchase: Universal | Apple Books | Barnes & Noble | Google Play | Kobo | Smashwords

BESTSELLING author Martha Sweeney presents her first historical romance set in England during the 1800s when the steam engine was first made available for public use. At the age of twenty-four, Abigail becomes widowed and the sole survivor of the recently deceased Lord Quincy. Upon inheriting his estate, she becomes the first woman to own property. Having been brought up on a farm with three brothers, Abigail knows what it takes to keep the business profitable. Strong-willed and confident, Abigail is determined to prove herself capable. While trying to balance the Manor, the farm, an orphaned child, and her status in society, Abigail finds herself presented with love in the most unusual of places. Will she allow love into her life when it’s staring her in the face? A clean yet witty story about Lady Abigail Moss who is an independent woman every man desires and who every woman desires to be.

About the Author

 

Martha Sweeney is a BESTSELLING, multi-genre author who writes: romance, suspense, fantasy, romantic comedy, thriller, coloring books, and science fiction. She strives to push herself as a storyteller with each new tale and hopes to push her readers outside of their comfort zone whether it be the genre or the stories themselves. With a B.S. in Psychology, Martha utilizes her knowledge of human and animal behavior successfully in the business world and in her writing to present realistic characters and situations. She’s been creative since she was little, always drawing, coloring or making crafts, so her venture into being an author was a natural transition.

Website | Newsletter | Bookbub | Goodreads | Amazon | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest

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They Called Him Marvin by Roger Stark Book Tour and Guest Review!

They Called Him Marvin by Roger Stark

Publisher: Silver Star (September 21, 2021
Category: Historical Romance, WW2, Family Saga, Based on a True Story
Tour dates: April 25-June 24, 2022
ISBN: 978-0578855288

Available in Print and ebook, 320 pages

Description They Called Him Marvin by Roger Stark

They were just kids, barely not teenagers, madly in love and wanting to be a family, but WW2 and a B29 got in their way.

Three hundred ten days before Pearl Harbor, buck private Dean Sherman innocently went to church with a new friend in Salt Lake City. From that moment, the unsuspecting soldier travelled a remarkable, heroic path, falling in love, graduating from demanding training to become a B29 pilot, conceiving a son and entering the China, Burma and India theater of the WW2.

He chronicled his story with letters home to his bride Connie that he met on that fateful Sunday, blind to the fact that fifteen hundred seventy five days after their meeting, a Japanese swordsman would end his life.

His crew, a gaggle of Corporals that dubbed themselves the Corporealizes, four officers and a tech Sargent, adventured their way across the globe. Flying the “Aluminum Trail” also called the Hump through the Himalayas, site of the most dangerous flying in the world. Landing in China to refuel and then fly on to places like Manchuria, Rangoon or even the most southern parts of Japan to drop 500 pounders.

Each mission had its challenges, minus fifty degree weather in Mukden, or Japanese fighters firing away at them, a close encounter of the wrong kind, nearly missing a collision with another B29 while flying in clouds, seeing friends downed and lost because of “mechanicals,” the constant threat of running out of fuel and their greatest fear, engine fire.

Transferred to the Mariana Islands, he and his crew were shot down over Nagoya, Japan as part of Mission 174, captured and declared war criminals.

Connie’s letters reveal life for a brand new mother whose husband is declared MIA. The agony for both of them, he in a Japanese prison, declared a war criminal, and she just not knowing why his letters stopped coming.

Review They Called Him Marvin by Roger Stark

Guest Review by Laura Lee

'They Called Him Marvin,' is a story about love, survival and war in what was probably the most terrifying time for American citizens of the 20^th century.

In 1941, World War II was raging across much of the world, but despite sending supplies, American had kept cautiously out of the fighting. This would all change after Japanese forces bombed Pearl Harbor and the U.S finally began sending troops overseas. These are things we all know from history class, but what of the soldiers who were sent overseas in those first waves of assignments? What of the individuals called upon to serve their country, who had limited information of what they were even getting into?

This book is about a man like that, Lt. Dean Sherman, who, in 1941 was not yet a lieutenant, but who had just met the love of his life in the form of one Constance Baldwin. Constance was a nice, church-going girl, whose parents were initially reluctant to let her date a soldier. But eventually, Constance's parents relented, and the two dated and were married shortly before the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Constance soon became pregnant and it was while she was with child that Dean was called upon to pilot a B-29 over to China and Japan. Constance returned to her parent's house in Utah, where she had only Dean's love letters to make her feel close to him for the next four years. These letters are reprinted in the book, and they make up the soul of 'They Called Him Marvin,' providing a human element to the story of a war that, at so many times, was anything but humane.

Roger Stark really makes his readers love the people that he writes about and appreciate the finer details of what each of them were going through. Although Dean Sherman was never able to return home to his wife and their son, Marvin, I'm sure he would have enjoyed this book and liked to have his side of the story told. It is based on the true story and the writing is pure gold! 

Guest Post by Roger Stark

So, What Makes You Think You are a Writer?

 I don't consider my self a writer. When My wife introduced me to a new acquaintance saying, "He is a writer," I was taken back, shocked like it was a new idea coming into my mind for the first time. Well, yeah, I am retired from day jobs, I have written stuff, but I haven't tried to make a living doing it, or won any fabulous prize or notoriety because of anything I have written. I am just a regular human being that has written some stuff. I don't deserve to elevate myself to the status of people who can really write.

In my junior year of high school my English teacher Miss Johnson, a definite credit to the profession, sponsored a little essay contest amongst all of the juniors taking English (which of course was everyone) that year. Fifteen hundred words. I remember thinking how impossible writing fifteen hundred words would be when she announced the assignment. I gave it the automatic "No Way" reaction. It took me a while to recover enough to actually start formulating a subject and the how of writing fifteen hundred words. You know, 1500 words that went together, that turned into something.

I had recently seen a movie that I quite enjoyed. "Mr Roberts" had made the transition from Broadway hit to the movie screen bringing along the star of the play Henry Fonda as Roberts. One of the scenes that stuck in my head was an overflow of suds from the laundry that inundated the ship. Bubbles of soap suds billowed out of the ship's lower areas onto the main deck. My wondering about what I might write for my essay collided with that hilarious scene, and an essay titled "Bubbles" was born. To get to the point my essay won the contest, I filed that away as nice, but never considered that I might have some sort of skill in the art of writing.

Fast forward to my real life career as an Addiction Counselor. As I accumulated knowledge in the field, I applied to a national organization to present on the subject of addiction recovery. The presentation went very well, and convinced me I had enough material for a book on the subject. A year later "The Waterfall Concept, A Blueprint for Addiction Recovery" appeared in print. It was not on any best seller's list, but sold enough copies that I called it successful. I followed that up with "Reclaiming Your Addicted Brain," a book I coauthored with an addict friend. But those were self help books and quite different from a "real" story. Fiction or even creative non fiction, writing just seemed out of the realm of possibility for me.

 Then I went to dinner at Marv's house. We had worked together, along with some others, on a recovery project and he and his wife, Judy put on a little dinner party to thank all who had helped. Judy's dinner was exceptional, but it was the after-dinner conversation that changed my mind about writing. Marv related to me the story of a father he had never met, a victim of WW2. He was very emotional and admitted that he knew little of his father, the pain of researching him just too great. I knew that this was a story that others should hear, should remember. and should honor.

That was eight years ago now. Six of those years were spent in research and writing. I visited Japan, the National Archives in Washington DC and spent countless hours in front of my computer researching, finding bits of information here and there. When Marv gave me the letters to transcribe, I knew they had to be part of what I was writing. Many writers friends suggested just using a few, but I felt this was Dean and Connie's story and I should let them tell as much of it as I could.

I felt other worldly influences when I wrote. Many times, I looked behind me as I was writing to see if Dean was looking over my shoulder. I could feel his influence. He liked to wake me at 4 am with a great idea or sentence. I learned to go to the computer and record them or they would evaporate if I went back to sleep.

So "They Called Him Marvin" came into existence, not because I am a writer, but because it needed to be told. People needed to hear it. People need to remember and honor their gift to us.

So please don't confuse me with a writer. The wordsmiths that do magical things with words. I am just a guy who heard a story and felt it needed to be passed along.

About Roger Stark

Roger Stark, by his own admission, is a reluctant writer. But there are stories that demand to be told. When we hear them, we must pick up our pen, lest we forget and the stories be lost. Six years ago, in a quiet conversation with his friend, Marvin, he learned the tragic story of his father, a WW2 B-29 Airplane Commander, shot down over Nagoya, Japan, just months before the end of the war.

The telling of the story that evening by this half orphan was so moving and full of emotion, it compelled Roger to ask if he could write the story. The result being “They Called Him Marvin.”

Roger Stark’s life has been profoundly touched in so many ways by being part of documenting this sacred story. He prays that we never forget, as a people, the depth of sacrifice that was made by ordinary people like Marvin and his father and mother on our behalf.

Website: https://theycalledhimmarvin.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TCHMarvin

Buy They Called Him Marvin by Roger Stark

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Giveaway They Called Him Marvin by Roger Stark

This giveaway is for 3 print copies, one for each of 3 winners. This giveaway is open to  the U.S. only and ends on June 24, 2022 midnight, pacific time.  Entries accepted via Rafflecopter only.

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In the Trap Series: Hazel & Maeve: The Campus Mysteries, Book One by Jessica Cranberry Book Tour and Giveaway! #LGBTQIA+ @ninestarpress @indigomarketingdesign

 

Title: In the Trap

Series: Hazel & Maeve: The Campus Mysteries, Book One

Author: Jessica Cranberry

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/10/2022

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 67500

Genre: Contemporary, campus drama, college, contemporary, drug and alcohol use, HFN, lit/genre fiction, murder mystery, new adult, no romance, self-harm, students

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Description

For Hazel, an introvert with a knack for people watching, campus life is awkward and hard and…lonely. That is, until she starts to let her guard down around her roommate, Maeve—who’s fun and has a wicked flair for drama. Could there be more than just a friendship here? Maybe. But Hazel has a lot of family trauma to work through before figuring out the other big parts of her life. For now, she’s just happy to have someone to talk to.

All seems to go well until a night in the Trap—the university’s green space—leads to a tense encounter with some drunk guys. When one of the guys ends up dead, Hazel is implicated, and she and Maeve set out to solve the crime before police can connect either of them to it. But how can two amateur sleuths put together a solid case to hand over to the police in time? By following the campus online diaries, that’s how.

Set at the beginning of the internet age, people are just starting to share all their deepest, darkest secrets via the World Wide Web, yet the assumption of online anonymity may be a critical mistake. As the perpetrator posts their criminal diary for public consumption, Hazel and Maeve scramble to use technology to piece together the murderer’s identity. Can they hack their way out of becoming suspects? And if so, could they ever go back to their boring majors?

Excerpt

In the Trap
Jessica Cranberry © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Bell-e-fon-taine. We soared past the exit in Aunt Liddy’s old Volvo station wagon, and I couldn’t read the sign any other way. Ohio had a couple of cities spelled one way but pronounced another. Bellefontaine was actually Bell Fountain. In Versailles, west of here, closer to the Indiana border, people called it Ver-sales. I didn’t know why; I wasn’t really from Ohio.

Aunt Liddy’s car was humid, just like outside. We drove a little to the middle and a little to the east. Dark clouds gathered. I could’ve said on the horizon, but Midwestern storms didn’t always work that way unless a tornado was coming. No. The clouds hung close, not a ways off. Their color changed, oppressive ash-gray shifting to ominous lead billows. The sky darkened so hard one might think the whole world was on fire.

With a crack and a flash of silver-white, raindrops fell thick and loud, pounding against the car. The storm’s beating percussion drowned out the sound of Aunt Liddy’s sappy oldies music, so much so she ended up clicking the station off. I cranked up the air conditioning to keep the windows from fogging up.

The windshield wipers went wild, swiping waves of water away as fast as possible. It reminded me of how Dad used to laugh when he told the story about helping Mom learn to drive. They were high-school sweethearts—of course. In the rain, she’d get lost in the tempo of the wipers and automatically steer the wheel to the rhythm. She’d swerve all over the road until he’d scoot in close and steady her hand, instructing her to look farther ahead, past the wiper blades.

“I better slow down,” Aunt Liddy mumbled to herself. Most people talked just to hear their own voices, but especially when they got nervous.

The car’s momentum slackened, but the road and our windshield still blurred with splashing water. I couldn’t see anything in front of us. Out the side-view window, everything was soaked in the deluge, a blurry, slushy mix of greens and grays.

“Should we pull over?” I asked.

Aunt Liddy chewed her lower lip by way of an answer, and the hairy mole on her chin twitched—in a good witch kind of way. She ran her hand through the cropped mop of curls on top of her head; she was in her early fifties and had already accepted a Golden Girls haircut into her life.

I could make out an elongated mound up ahead. “Looks like an underpass. We could pull over underneath.”

In seconds, our car slid under the shelter. The beating of the rain silenced for a moment. But Aunt Liddy didn’t stop; her knuckles turned white as she gripped the wheel, and we kept going.

“We’re not stopping,” she said as if I wasn’t already aware of her steadfast persistence to get me to college.

“There’s no timeline, Aunt Liddy. It’s the weekend. We can show up at the dorm whenever.”

“We made a plan; we stick to the plan.”

This was our screwed-up version of a family motto. I wasn’t sure when or how it originated, but Fischers rarely deviated. We did what we thought we were supposed to do. No matter the warning signs, we pressed on.

The rain subsided a little; its pounding beat softened to a patter, and Aunt Liddy relaxed her shoulders. She punched the radio back on, and the soothing tones of “I Can See Clearly Now” filled the car.

As Aunt Liddy hummed along, I worried a hangnail on my thumb, savoring the little sting of pain. It reminded me who I was, where I was going, and that I was doing it alone. The road stayed slick with water and sounded like its own river as we drove over and through puddles.

Suddenly, a sharp bite stole my breath as I lurched forward in my seat, the seat belt digging into my collarbone and chest. Aunt Liddy put her arm in front of me as if that would be enough to stop my head splitting against the windshield. The dashboard was mere inches from crushing the bridge of my nose.

She stomped the brakes and yelled and cursed. Bright red taillights filled our windshield, sparkling and reflecting in the last of the raindrops that hadn’t been swiped away. The back of our car started to edge around. Back and forth, fishtailing as Aunt Liddy tried to gain control. Her face flushed pink, expression strained.

Life was supposed to flash in front of my eyes, but I hadn’t lived long enough for anything to really show up. I saw my mom smiling and heard my dad laughing, and nothing more. Were they—and everything they’d been through—all my life had amounted to?

Miraculously, Aunt Liddy steadied the car. She laid on the horn. It blared long and loud.

“Did you see him? He cut me off!”

The truck in front of us was massive, with a set of mud flaps showing the curving silhouettes of two naked women. Classy. The truck driver stuck his middle finger out the window.

“Stupid dick.” Aunt Liddy drew in a deep breath. “He’s gonna get someone killed.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry. Are you okay, hun?”

I could barely breathe. My heartbeat pounded in my throat and ears. My eyes watered and felt as though they were barely in their sockets. But sure, I was fine and said as much. That stupid song continued. Its singer insisted life was all clear blue skies and obstacles could be seen from far off, which was a damn lie. Trucks came out of nowhere, and so did bad people. Red flags didn’t look like red flags until after the fact.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Jessica Cranberry lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills and spends most days striking a balance between parenthood, teaching, and writing suspense novels or eclectic short stories. Find out more on Jessica's Website.

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In The Trap by @itwasjess Book Blitz and Giveaway! #XpressoTours @XpressoTours #JessicaCranberry #InTheTrap

 

In The Trap
Jessica Cranberry

(Hazel & Maeve: The Campus Mysteries, #1)
Publication date: May 10th 2022
Genres: Adult, Mystery, Suspense

For Hazel, an introvert with a knack for people watching, campus life is awkward and hard and…lonely. That is, until she starts to let her guard down around her roommate, Maeve—who’s fun and has a wicked flair for drama. Could there be more than just a friendship here? Maybe. But Hazel has a lot of family trauma to work through before figuring out the other big parts of her life. For now, she’s just happy to have someone to talk to.

All seems to go well until a night in the Trap—the university’s green space—leads to a tense encounter with some drunk guys. When one of the guys ends up dead, Hazel is implicated, and she and Maeve set out to solve the crime before police can connect either of them to it. But how can two amateur sleuths put together a solid case to hand over to the police in time? By following the campus online diaries, that’s how.

Set at the beginning of the internet age, people are just starting to share all their deepest, darkest secrets via the World Wide Web, yet the assumption of online anonymity may be a critical mistake. As the perpetrator posts their criminal diary for public consumption, Hazel and Maeve scramble to use technology to piece together the murderer’s identity. Can they hack their way out of becoming suspects? And if so, could they ever go back to their boring majors?

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“The rain subsided a little; its pounding beat softened to a patter, and Aunt Liddy relaxed her shoulders. She punched the radio back on, and the soothing tones of “I Can See Clearly Now” filled the car.

As Aunt Liddy hummed along, I worried a hangnail on my thumb, savoring the little sting of pain. It reminded me who I was, where I was going, and that I was doing it alone. The road stayed slick with water and sounded like its own river as we drove over and through puddles.

Suddenly, a sharp bite stole my breath as I lurched forward in my seat, the seat belt digging into my collarbone and chest. Aunt Liddy put her arm in front of me as if that would be enough to stop my head splitting against the windshield. The dashboard was mere inches from crushing the bridge of my nose.

She stomped the brakes and yelled and cursed. Bright red taillights filled our windshield, sparkling and reflecting in the last of the raindrops that hadn’t been swiped away. The back of our car started to edge around. Back and forth, fishtailing as Aunt Liddy tried to gain control. Her face flushed pink, expression strained.

Life was supposed to flash in front of my eyes, but I hadn’t lived long enough for anything to really show up. I saw my mom smiling and heard my dad laughing, and nothing more. Were they—and everything they’d been through—all my life had amounted to?

Miraculously, Aunt Liddy steadied the car. She laid on the horn. It blared long and loud.

“Did you see him? He cut me off!”

The truck in front of us was massive, with a set of mud flaps showing the curving silhouettes of two naked women. Classy. The truck driver stuck his middle finger out the window.

“Stupid dick.” Aunt Liddy drew in a deep breath. “He’s gonna get someone killed.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry. Are you okay, hun?”

I could barely breathe. My heartbeat pounded in my throat and ears. My eyes watered and felt as though they were barely in their sockets. But sure, I was fine and said as much. That stupid song continued. Its singer insisted life was all clear blue skies and obstacles could be seen from far off, which was a damn lie. Trucks came out of nowhere, and so did bad people. Red flags didn’t look like red flags until after the fact.”

Jessica Cranberry lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills with her family and spends days striking a balance between parenthood, teaching, editing/proofreading, and writing–suspense novels and eclectic short stories mostly. When she's not doing those things, she's reading, attempting to garden, or hiking around town. She's an okay baker, and has been known to paint on occasion.

Website / Goodreads / Instagram

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Sirens and Leviathans by @authorcdbritt Book Blitz and Giveaway! #XpressoTours @XpressoTours #cdbritt #SirensandLeviathans

 

Sirens and Leviathans
C.D. Britt

(The Reign of Goddesses, #2)
Publication date: May 10th 2022
Genres: Adult, Urban Fantasy

Goddess of the sea
Head of the Zephyr Maritime Administration.
Spymaster.

Amphitrite has always lived in the shadows of her sisters, but the shadows are where she does her best work. Living two lives was always easy enough for the Goddess; from being a pirate ship captain chasing secrets instead of gold to an upstanding government official. She has worked alongside her spies and sirens for centuries, guarding both the sea and Halcyon.

But a war has started against the Titans, and the darkness taking over the sea is now more than she can handle alone.

West Murphy has been the golden heir all his life, making selfish choices and surrounding himself with disposable people. That was until the night an act of violence forever changed his life. Now, feeling betrayed by everyone he knows, he considers himself a hollow shell of a man with no true purpose.

Until a tsunami changes the tides of his fate forever.

Sirens and Leviathans is the second book in the Reign of Goddesses series.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Amphitrite stepped off the gangplank and steadied herself against the sway of the ship as waves met the hull. She looked around the deck, where her ladies were well into the process of commandeering the large vessel.

She took a deep, fortifying breath of crisp ocean air. The salty breeze revitalized her in a way nothing else could. They were still far from shore, a fact belied by the lack of birds calling out to her. She’d have enough time to handle her business here and move on before the human ships found her.

The pirates, having been rounded up by her crew, were on their knees with their wrists tied behind their backs.

Good. This was going to be easier than she thought.

The captives’ dark eyes watched them with a combination of anger and shock. Another perk of a ship full of female pirates. Men never knew what to do when faced with her crew. Did they fight the lady as they did a man? That moment of hesitation was all she and her girls needed.

Her first mate moved to stand beside her and, without prompting, gave her the lay of the land.

“A dozen men here. Twenty men, including the captain, are being held below decks.” Her first mate paused and ground her teeth. “And thirty-two in cargo.”

Amphitrite almost choked.

“Thirty-two?” She tried not to let her voice rise, but she was having difficulty. Thirty-two women sat in the ship’s hull, terrified, not knowing that their future meant being sold into a slave trade where the price was innocence and flesh.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “They are in a horrendous state. This lot,” she motioned to the men bound in front of them, “is lucky I didn’t separate their heads from their necks when I found them.”

The cadence of her first mate’s normally calm voice broke, telling Amphitrite all she needed to know about how to handle this.

“Take me to the captain,” she ordered. “Hold the men here. We will let our friends of the sea handle them soon enough and I don’t want to miss that.” She let a devious smirk cross her face as the men tied in ropes visibly paled at her reference to ‘friends of the sea’.

Oh, they knew. All the better.

Her first mate led her across the deck. As she turned toward the ship’s living quarters, she heard the tell-tale grunts of her crew taking their anger out on the newly captured men. She did not begrudge them, not if what she was walking into was anything close to what she imagined.

They stopped in front of an ornately carved door, the rich wood mismatched from the rest of the battered ship, and she knew immediately a pretentious bastard waited behind it. Her hand twitched toward her cutlass, but perhaps it was better to let him think her weaker, less able to handle herself in his presence.

Amphitrite was good at misleading people. That was what made her the best spymaster on the high seas. She was unremarkable when compared to her sisters; Persephone and Hera. She could fall back into the shadows, and she knew how to stay there. Even her sisters were ignorant of the network she’d amassed over the years and her role at its head. When her spies went to Hera with information, Amphitrite often wondered if she even questioned who’d accumulated those jewels of intelligence for her. How would that thunderous sister of hers react if she knew the truth? That she spent her days as a pirate, hunting for a treasure much greater than gold: secrets.

She stepped through the ridiculous door, her first mate following behind her, and stood before a fat, bearded man. He was strapped to his seat in the center of the small chamber. A sneer pinched his bloated face when she entered.

Amphitrite knew what he saw. A petite woman in scandalous trousers and a leather corset tied over her undersleeves. A dark blue coat large enough to suit a man twice her size. A tricorn hat with a bold feather. A gleaming cutlass. Wild red hair barely constrained in a wind-swept braid.

A menace.

A pirate queen.

The bane of his existence.

“Sea witch,” he growled, straining against his bonds.

Amphitrite shrugged. “Sea witch. Water witch. It matters not what you call me.”

The captain glowered.

“You searched him?” she questioned her first mate.

“Sadly, yes. The disgusting things I do for you…” she muttered.

Amphitrite gave her a wink and assessed the briny captain coolly.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“And whom may I presume you are?” She smiled, but it was all teeth.

He spat on the floor near her feet. Neither she nor her first mate flinched.

“Ah!” Amphitrite held up a hand. “My apologies! I haven’t properly introduced you to my first mate! A thorough search without a name. Where are my manners?”

The woman stepped forward and Amphitrite watched the man’s weariness grow at the sight of the honey eyes and skin, the dark hair braided with colorful beads from around the world. She could have been a siren had she not been born mortal.

“Captain,” she said with flourish. “This is Medusa.”

The man jerked against the rope holding him to the chair, his eyes bulging with fear.

Amphitrite smirked at her friend. “Your reputation precedes you!”

Medusa’s beautiful face held no smile. “As it should.” Her flinty gaze was trained on the captain, who trembled violently.

“Honestly, I did not receive that same reaction.” Amphitrite pouted.

“You hide the nightmares in you. I let mine free.”

C.D. Britt began her writing journey when her husband told her she needed to use her excessive imagination to write stories as opposed to creating a daily narrative for him. Ever since she penned her first words, life has been a lot more peaceful for him.

She currently resides in Texas where she has yet to adapt to the heat. Her husband thrives in it, so unfortunately they will not be relocating to colder climates anytime soon.

Their two young children would honestly complain either way.

When she is not in her writing cave (hiding from the sun), she enjoys ignoring the world as much as her children will allow with a good book, music, and vast amounts of coffee (until it’s time for wine).

C.D. Britt is the author of Shadows and Vines and the upcoming book, Sirens and Leviathans.

Both books are part of the Reign of Goddesses series.

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Bear Witness (An Alaska Untamed Mystery) by Lark O. Jensen

About Bear Witness

 

Bear Witness (An Alaska Untamed Mystery) 

Cozy Mystery 1st in Series Setting - Alaska 

 Crooked Lane Books (May 10, 2022)

Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 320 pages 

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1643858963 

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1643858968 

Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B09CD3RWVD

Alaska tour boat guide Stacie Calder faces the deep freeze in this scenic cozy series debut perfect for fans of Paige Shelton.

 

No nine-to-five cubicle career will suit Stacie Calder—the naturalist much prefers working in the great outdoors. Specifically, the spacious and spectacular Alaskan wilderness, whose rugged charms she shares with sightseers on the top deck of the tour boat where she works. But one May afternoon, Stacie’s passengers see more than glittering glaciers, frolicking harbor seals, climbing bears and soaring seabirds…they also witness a man lying dead in the frigid Alaskan waters. And it seems likely that someone gave him a fatal push.

Stacie didn’t know the unfortunate victim, but he sure wanted to know a lot about her. He spent most of his final afternoon bombarding her with questions quite awkward to answer. And when he wasn’t in her hair, he was arguing incessantly with the boat’s beleaguered crew. Which makes for a suspect list about as long as the passenger manifest. Furthermore, as police helicopters relentlessly circle her boat in search of any clues, Stacie is shaken to find herself on that suspect list.

Before the tour boat reaches shore Stacie—accompanied by her beautiful blue-eyed husky, Sasha—must deduce just who sent the testy tourist tumbling into the turgid waters and have the authorities take custody. Because if she can’t, then the killer might aim a fatal ice-cold stare at Stacie.

About Lark O. Jensen

Lark O. Jensen is the pseudonym of Linda O. Johnston, a former lawyer who is now a full-time writer. Lark has written Bear Witness, the first Alaska Untamed mystery for Crooked Lane. Linda has written the Barkery & Biscuits Mystery series and the Superstition Mysteries for Midnight Ink and the Pet Rescue Mysteries and Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime. Linda also writes for Harlequin Romantic Suspense, and her stories often involve dogs.

Author Links 

  Website: www.LindaOJohnston.com 

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LindaOJohnston/ 

  Purchase Links Amazon Barnes & Noble 

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