Reviews!

To any authors/publishers/ tour companies that are looking for the reviews that I signed up for please know this is very hard to do. I will be stopping reviews temporarily. My husband passed away February 1st and my new normal is a bit scary right now and I am unable to concentrate on a book to do justice to the book and authors. I will still do spotlight posts if you wish it is just the reviews at this time. I apologize for this, but it isn't fair to you if I signed up to do a review and haven't been able to because I can't concentrate on any books. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time. I appreciate all of you. Kathleen Kelly April 2nd 2024

20 November 2022

Christmas Spirits by Dakota Star Book Blitz! #ChristmasSpirits #DakotaStar @laft100 #XpressoTours⁣ #XpressoTours⁣

 

Christmas Spirits
Dakota Star


Publication date: November 15th 2022
Genres: Adult, Holiday, Romance, Thriller

Ash has always felt at home in the small town of Humble, Connecticut, especially for the holidays. After her husband’s death, she never thought she’d love again, but then Cole Whelan arrived. His good looks and haunted hazel eyes were impossible to ignore, and their passion put an end to her simple, ordered life. This year, she can’t wait to celebrate with hot chocolate, a tree to decorate, and presents, lots of presents.

But when Ash stumbles into a cave and a corpse during a run, Christmas turns into crisis. There’s a killer on the hunt, and she’s his next target. With the snow falling, Ash hosting for the holidays, and another mysterious murder, will all hope of holiday cheer be trashed like old wrapping paper?

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SNEAK PEEK:

She jogged, warming up along the start of the trail, and then increased the tempo. Maple, beech, and birch lined the singletrack, the rough texture and bark color the only indication of the different species of deciduous trees.

Ash sped up, tightening her ponytail in the elastic; a few long, wayward curls drooped down her back. She felt the heat build under her thermal top and vest as her arms and legs pumped. Rambo kept pace.

I need this run. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. In and out. Repeat.

The exercise opened her lungs and stretched lean, athletic limbs until the energy flowing became liquid fire. Invigorated, she picked up the pace again.

Ash saw the cave, her two-mile marker and turnabout point. Surveying the rocky landscape, she gulped air before the return trip. She wiped the sweat from her brow and then ran her damp hands along her black spandex leggings.

Turning back, Rambo refused to follow. He barked and pulled on the leash. His small body was stiff, the fur on his back straight up. He pulled her toward the cave.

“Come on Rambo, let’s go home.” Ash shivered and pulled on the leash.

The dog refused to yield.
“Fine.” She stumbled, realizing her shoe hated her and even with a double knot had come untied again. She bent to retie the laces, double knotting the strings, pulling them tight with vengeance. Standing, Ash hiked the rocky precipice, the dog pulling ahead. The final steps to the cave coalesced along a dirt and twig laden path. The cliff adjacent to her was a high point on the trail, but she had no plans to scale it.

Large rock outcrops created a dark cave entrance shaped like a mouth mid scream. Rambo barked and lunged.

Ash had heard stories of people living in or visiting these caves, from historic figures to modern day squatters. She found it easy to envision a camper coming to one before dark, starting a small fire with kindling, preparing a meal, and enjoying the quiet of nature. At least it was possible to imagine during the warmer months. No one would want to be out here in winter, even if the daytime temperature had topped forty degrees.

Rambo pulled her inside the cave. Instantly claustrophobic, the interior narrowed to a pinpoint at the end. Ash ducked as she made her way under the formation’s schist and gneiss slabs. Cold engulfed her. Rich, dark rock mosaics greeted her from the recesses. Crouching slightly, she scurried forward. “What the heck?” A horrid stench stung her nose A lump rose from the ground and in her throat. Something had died here. Ash pulled out her phone, turned on the flashlight, aimed toward the misshapen entity, and gasped. In the far corner—a body.

Dakota Star lives in Connecticut with her husband and two daughters. Both her daughters have finished college and moved away so her dogs, cats, and retired horse now keep her busy. When not outside hiking or horseback riding, she loves to read and travel.

She has worked as an editor, a freelance writer for local newspapers, and an educator at local environmental non-profits like aquariums and The National Audubon Society.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram

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19 November 2022

God's Gift by Auburn C. Piper New Release Blitz! @ninestarpress @indigomarketingdesign #LGBTQIA+

 

Title:  God's Gift

Author: Auburn C. Piper

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/15/2022

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 55750

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, alpha males, athlete, coming of age, coming out, revenge, sports

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Robert Lee, a high school football star, is treated like a god in his small town as long as he keeps winning and bringing championships.

Lee has his sights set on breaking a sacred football record and all systems are ‘go’ until a new student, Justin, moves into town and turns his world upside down.

A simple kiss has his once-perfect life shattered into a million pieces.

Excerpt

God’s Gift
Auburn C. Piper © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Gods and Monsters

I am a God.

My kingdom is Friday Night, and it spans fifty-by-one-hundred yards. In that space, I perform miracles and astound my following, who are legion. Game night fanatics awash in a sea of black-and-white streamers, pom-poms, and foam fingers. Zealots whose church is a stadium, who worship a scoreboard. They scream for points and lust for victory. They bring me offerings: free fill-ups at the Gas & Go, free food at the cafes and Dairy Queen, straight As on all my report cards. The followers of Friday Night tell me I’m strong and fast and smart. They say I’m the best they’ve ever seen, and there’s no limit to my talent. They worship me, want to be me, parents want their kids to grow up just like me. Their babies wear tiny football jerseys with my number on them. Lucky number 13. They video my games, post highlights on YouTube, Instagram, and Facebook. Thousands hit those vids, including college coaches from across the nation. It’s not arrogance. It’s fact. The God’s gospel.

I can part troubled seas and walk on water.

And to keep the faithful happy, all I have to do is win.

And that’s what I do. It’s all I know how to do.

Because I am a God.

A Friday Night God.

*

I never used to keep track of my stats during a game. It used to be all about the team. Eyeballin’ your numbers isn’t cool. But I know I have more than fifty pass attempts already and maybe close to five hundred yards, maybe more. Some may think that’s a good game. Some may think that’s a helluva game! But to the football learned, it means something is up; there’s a reason you’re throwing so many passes. Our reason? We have no defense, and my offensive line is worthless. Yeah, I know I got a lot of numbers up, but I’m bleeding and hurting like hell too. I look at the faces around me in the huddle. They’re young kids now, mostly freshman and sophomores, all of them wide-eyed and full of fear and fire, praying they won’t screw up too much. I look up at the scoreboard, 62–42. That’s a big score, and there’s only eighteen seconds left. No, they haven’t screwed it up too much. The blocking might have been better, maybe a lot better, but I guess these boys have done all right for themselves, at least offensively. Defensively, well, I don’t worry about that too much. I haven’t played on defense since my freshman year. Defense is the coach’s worry.

“All right! All right! Everybody pull it in! Pull it in close, time-out’s almost over!” I yell at them. The youngbloods gather close, surrounding me, waiting for the words that will inspire them, fill their hearts with fury.

“OK, now, y’all stand up straight while I do this.” I bend over in the center of the huddle and heave. Hot, frothy puke spews out of my mouth and through my face mask. I feel better.

Someone says, “Shee-itt!”

I’ve got liquid goo hanging from my face mask and oozing down the front of my bloodstained white jersey, and the faces looking at me now are full of wide-eyed terror. No worry. I always chunk at least once before or during a game. If I didn’t toss my guts, I’d worry.

“Jesus, guys. Don’t shit your pants. Remember, Gatorade is thirst aid. It’s for that deep-down body thirst,” I say.

No one laughs.

If Hollis were here, he would laugh. But Hollis isn’t here. Man-mountain Hollis Strahan—our 300-pound, all-world right tackle and my best friend—is on the sideline nursing a high-ankle sprain and didn’t even dress for the game. Big Hol, that’s what everybody calls him, is pure mean and loves to make people hurt on and off the field, more so off. In a street fight there are no refs and no rules, and Hol never plays by the rules. I’ve seen him make people bleed before, hammer a guy so hard blood spurts out of all his holes. I’ve seen him stand over ’em, too, laughing and smiling after he’d beat them down, then spit on ’em or call their momma a bad name. But Hollis is my boy, best friend since way before we were in school. He keeps me safe in the pocket. When Hol is playing, I never have to worry about getting blindsided and broken.

It’d been a game-time decision to hold Hollis out. Coach Steele told the reporters it wasn’t necessary for him to play, made a big deal about him resting up for the next game. Fine with me. The team we’re playing, the Paducah Dragons, are in a down year anyway. They’re 2–6 and at the bottom of our district. Going up against us, the mighty Plains Plainsmen, state champs three years running, they didn’t have a chance in hell on paper. But like I always say, the game ain’t played on paper, it’s played between the hash marks. To be honest with you, someone else said that. I just like repeating it.

The Drags are a small team but fast, and they came up with a good game plan. They’d let us score as much as we wanted, but they make us bleed for every point. That’s no lie. They’ve been blitzing all night and laying their D-backs off deep. Every damn play there’s been a linebacker or a safety in my face. And without Hollis watching my blind side, it’s been puredee hurtin’ hell. I’ve already been sacked more tonight than I have all season, and I’ve been pretty much on my ass after every throw. But I’m making them pay too. Our receivers are quick as shit and open on almost every play. I hit my boys on ropes. Up and down the field we go, scoring at will. After the first quarter, when Coach Steele understood what their game plan was, he didn’t even bother with trying to run the ball to keep ’em honest. He told me, “Robert Lee, light ’em up.” Again, I never keep stats, but I know I’m having a big night. Even if I hurt like a sum’bitch.

As bad as their defense is, their offense ain’t too shabby. They’re pretty fast, maybe as fast as us, and they have this short Mexican kid for a quarterback who can run rings around lightning and put a BB through a pinhole at fifty yards. Their receivers are beating our secondary almost as bad as we’re beating theirs, and “shorty” is having a career night. But I look up at the clock and see only eighteen seconds left. Speedy’s big night is almost over.

I look at my boys, shake my head. Too damn young!

I say, “How the hell that dumbass reporter picked us to win state after graduating six seniors is beyond me. You boys ain’t nothin’ but babies. Hell, we may be able to score a hundred points, but what good is it when the damn defense gives up two hundred? Eventually, somebody’s gonna come up with a defense that’ll stop us. If I know that for a fact, you know every coach in 3A ball knows it!”

I wonder if what I’m saying is even getting through or if they understand the forces at work here. Nah, ’course they don’t. They’re all dumb jocks, and this game, this season, well, it’s a tangled web, a battle of wills and wants. The Plainsmen machine I’d led for the last three years is gone. This squad, this version of the mighty, is nothing but a shadow of those teams. Those were teams of destiny—three state titles, no one even coming close to us. The perfect pieces and the perfect players that only come along once in a lifetime. No, this isn’t the same team, but I figure it can still be a team of destiny, only a different kind of destiny. A personal kind. This team is a machine, but it’s my machine. I mentioned I never kept stats, well, I didn’t, at least not until this year.

I know damn well there isn’t a chance in hell we’re going all the way. There’s not enough experience, not enough senior vets. Hell, that was obvious to me at the beginning of the season. No, this year is going to be all about me. It’s time to drop my pants and show people the shine on my ass. To show all those recruiters from those big schools this quarterback from a one-horse town can move and throw with the best of ’em. To do that, I’ve got to come up with a big one. I have to throw up a number so huge those big schools can’t possibly ignore me.

The national single-season passing record.

Yeah, that’s my big fish. My marlin. It’s what this season is all about.

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Auburn Piper is an author from rural Paducah, Texas. His first novel is the self-published GOTHA.

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Death on a Winter Stroll: A Merry Folger Christmas Mystery, A Merry Folger Nantucket Mystery (Book 7) by Francine Mathews Book Tour!

    • Title: Death on a Winter Stroll: A Merry Folger Christmas Mystery 

    • Series: A Merry Folger Nantucket Mystery (Book 7)

    • Author: Francine Mathews

    • Genre: Traditional Detective Mystery, Holiday Reading 

    • Publisher: ‎Soho Crime (November 1, 2022)

    • Length: (288) pages

    • Format: Hardcover, eBook, & audiobook 

    • ISBN: 978-1641292740

    Tour Dates: November 14 – December 19, 2022



  • No-nonsense Nantucket detective Merry Folger grapples with the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic and two murders as the island is overtaken by Hollywood stars and DC suits.


    Nantucket Police Chief Meredith Folger is acutely conscious of the stress COVID-19 has placed on the community she loves. Although the island has proved a refuge for many during the pandemic, the cost to Nantucket has been high. Merry hopes that the Christmas Stroll, one of Nantucket’s favorite traditions, in which Main Street is transformed into a winter wonderland, will lift the island’s spirits. But the arrival of a large-scale TV production, and the Secretary of State and her family, complicates matters significantly.
     
    The TV shoot is plagued with problems from within, as a shady, power-hungry producer clashes with strong-willed actors. Across Nantucket, the Secretary’s troubled stepson keeps shaking off his security detail to visit a dilapidated house near conservation land, where an intriguing recluse guards secrets of her own. With all parties overly conscious of spending too much time in the public eye and secrets swirling around both camps, it is difficult to parse what behavior is suspicious or not—until the bodies turn up.
     
    Now, it’s up to Merry and Detective Howie Seitz to find a connection between two seemingly unconnected murders and catch the killer. But when everyone has a motive, and half of the suspects are politicians and actors, how can Merry and Howie tell fact from fiction?
     
    This latest installment in critically acclaimed author Francine Mathews’ Merry Folger series is an immersive escape to festive Nantucket, a poignant exploration of grief as a result of parental absence, and a delicious new mystery to keep you guessing.


  • ADVANCE PRAISE

    • “This fast-moving mystery packs in a lot, but never too much, and will work for fans of coming-of-age stories, police procedurals, and romance.” —First Clue


    • “Fresh, well-wrought prose brings the setting of Nantucket to life. Mathews consistently entertains.” —Publishers Weekly


    • “Christmas and death come to Nantucket . . . Plenty of fascinating characters and myriad motives make for an exciting read.” —Kirkus Reviews 


    “Mathews consistently places relationships at the forefront of her mysteries, and Merry's unique blend of tenacity and humanity makes her a heroine to root for.”—USA Today bestselling author Karen Odden, author of the Inspector Corravan mysteries

  • Death on a Winter Stroll Excerpt


    One of the perks of being police chief was the ringside seat Merry Folger commanded for certain critical moments. For instance, this Saturday morning—the first weekend in December, with the sun high in the sky and a brisk, cold wind driving whitecaps across the water as a Coast Guard cutter sailed toward Straight Wharf. 


    Her white SUV with the distinctive navy and gray police markings was parked where no cars were allowed, within the Christmas Market barricades that blocked the wharf’s access to town. She and Peter were lounging against the bumper in their most festive winter gear. Merry’s father, John, was inside the car staying warm. They were waiting for Santa Claus to dock. 


    Nearby was the Town Crier and some of the town’s Select- persons who would escort the Man in Red to his island sleigh, a vintage firetruck owned by the Nantucket Hotel. Santa would stand in the back, waving, while the Town Crier walked ahead, ringing his bell, announcing the glad tidings of great joy. 


    “Look at that guy,” Peter muttered in her ear as a man roughly their age walked by, natty in sunglasses, a suit, and a knotted Stroll scarf. Nothing abnormal about that, except that the suit had red and green stripes with white death’s-heads and fists stamped all over it. 


    “Kind of like North-Pole-meets-Venice-Beach-tattoo-parlor,” Merry suggested. “You prefer the blonde, I take it?” 


    The blonde wore a minidress covered in hot pink sequins and thigh-high boots made of fake mink. She had a jingle bell on each boob. 


    Every third person in the crowd—and there were about ten thousand people in town, jockeying for the best viewing spots— was dressed in ways bizarre or wonderful. The color and noise and exuberance were thrilling after the cheerless quarantine holidays, and Merry was grinning helplessly. She glanced over her shoulder and gave her dad a thumbs-up. John was drinking coffee laced with peppermint schnapps in his passenger seat. He saluted her with his mug. 


    The sight of him sitting alone jolted her suddenly, as it did whenever she looked for her grandfather, Ralph Waldo Folger, and remembered he’s gone now. The freshness of loss stunned her each time like a blow to the face. 


    Merry had known her eighty-nine-year-old grandfather was vulnerable in the pandemic. She and John had talked by phone daily about ways to keep Ralph safe. As a frontline worker exposed for the duration to a germ-laden public, Merry had stayed scrupulously away from her childhood home on Tattle Court throughout the first waves of sickness. Peter arranged for grocery deliveries twice a week and dropped supplies from Marine Home at John’s front door. And Ralph was healthy for nearly a year: social distancing on his daily walks, wearing a mask when he ventured into town. He contracted Covid nine days before he was scheduled for his first vaccine. 


    Nantucket Cottage Hospital had five ventilators; Ralph never made it to one of them. Sickening on a Friday, he was delirious by Sunday and medevacked to Boston in the wee hours of Monday. Intubated, he lingered in a medically induced coma for four days. 


    What dropped Merry to the floor when they got the news, sobbing and hugging her knees as though she’d been sucker punched, was the fact that her careful distance hadn’t mattered a darn. Ralph was alone when he died. And she hadn’t seen or touched him for a year before that. Of all the pandemic’s cruelties, this was the coldest. 


    Her father thrust open the car door and stepped out to the paving beside her. “Boat’s in,” he said. 


    She linked her arm through his as the cutter drew along- side. A couple of ensigns jumped off with sheets in their hands and moored the steel-gray vessel to the wharf’s stanchions. The Town Crier hailed the boat, Santa waved, horns blared, the drum corps drummed. Merry and Peter and John whooped along with everyone else. Despite the logistics and the responsibilities, she was nominally handling, despite her underlying grief, joy shot through Merry as she fell into step behind the Selectpersons and jauntered after Santa’s firetruck. For the length of Main Street at least, she was uncomplicatedly happy. 


    It felt like the whole island celebrated with her. 


    Chapter 10, pg. 69-71


    From Death on a Winter Stroll © 2022, Francine Mathews, published by Soho Crime



Francine Mathews was born in Binghamton, New York, the last of six girls. She attended Princeton and Stanford Universities, where she studied history, before going on to work as an intelligence analyst at the CIA. She wrote her first book in 1992 and left the Agency a year later. Since then, she has written thirty books, including six previous novels in the Merry Folger series (Death in the Off-SeasonDeath in Rough WaterDeath in a Mood IndigoDeath in a Cold Hard Light, Death on Nantucket, and Death on Tuckernuck) as well as the nationally bestselling Being a Jane Austen mystery series, which she writes under the pen name Stephanie Barron. She lives and works in Denver, Colorado.


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Ghost Agents: Retribution (The Ghost Agents Trilogy) by Nita DeBorde Book Tour!

 

Ghost Agents: Retribution (The Ghost Agents Trilogy) 

Paranormal Cozy Mystery 3rd in Trilogy 

Setting – Paris (primarily)

Mabelonia Press (October 22, 2022) 

Paperback ‏ : ‎ 235 pages 

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1958045063 

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1958045060 

Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0BDTT9S6D

The Bureau for Historical Preservation is under attack.

The sinister, secret organization known as The Syndicate has finally stepped out of the shadows and made their presence known with a dramatic demonstration. In the aftermath of these shocking events, Claire Abelard and her fellow agents travel to the Bureau’s international headquarters in Paris, France in hopes of launching a coordinated response to the attack.
But something isn't right with Claire. The acumens she has relied on her whole life have gone haywire, endangering not only the mission but also everything she holds dear. As the scope of the Syndicate's plan unfolds, Claire must use every resource at her disposal to try to stop them... but will it be enough?
  Find out in this thrilling, final chapter of the award-winning Ghost Agents Trilogy.

========================================================================

 Excerpt from Ghost Agents: Retribution

“Do you think it’s a good idea for us to just be out here in the open like this?” Drew asked, scanning the surrounding area with a wary eye.

“It can’t be helped if we want to talk to Maurice,” Sophie told him.

Even at this time of night, the pedestrian plaza under the Eiffel Tower was sprinkled with a healthy smattering of tourists. If any Syndicate operatives were in the area, they would have little trouble blending in.

“Drew has a point,” Gabriel said. He patted the bulge of the gun underneath his suit jacket. “I think I’ll take a look around, just to be safe.”

Drew scanned their surroundings again and frowned. “What are we doing out here anyway? I don’t see any projections anywhere.”

Claire and Sophie exchanged a knowing look.

“Just give it a minute,” Claire told him.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Sophie added. “You definitely do not want to miss this show.”

Drew’s frown deepened as he glanced down at the clock on his phone. “Do we really have time for a show?”

Claire shrugged. “We have to be here anyway, so we might as well enjoy it.”

“I’d feel better if you told me why we…”

Before Drew could finish his complaint, the golden floodlights illuminating the Eiffel Tower shut off, plunging the area into complete darkness. Drew reached out and took Claire’s hand.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she assured him, giving his hand a squeeze.

Before their eyes had time to adjust to the darkness, thousands of flashes of light began a sparkling dance, chasing each other playfully around the massive, darkened tower. This was the Eiffel Tower’s famous nightly light show.

Every night since the turn of the new millennium, at the top of each hour after sundown, 20,000 LED bulbs accented the famous golden-hued floodlighting for five minutes. For the final show of the night at 2:00 a.m., the floodlights on the tower were turned off, providing a pitch-black canvas for the dazzling light display. 

Claire had timed their arrival at the tower so they would be there for the final show. Despite the high stakes of their investigation, she still wanted Drew to experience at least some of Paris’s touristy charms.

Five minutes after the sparkling had started, the LED lights blinked off for the final time and the golden floodlighting gradually returned to illuminate the tower. 

“That was really impressive,” Drew admitted. “I’d say it’s a ‘must see’ for tourists, but that’s not really what we are, is it?” He looked from Sophie to Claire. “Shouldn’t we be trying to figure out The Syndicate’s next move?”

Claire gave his hand another squeeze. “That’s why we’re here. Maurice might be able to help.”

Drew looked around again. “Where is this Maurice?”

“Just wait,” Claire urged.

“Wait for what?”

Sophie grinned. “You’ll see.”

Drew started to protest again but stopped mid-sentence as a distant sound cut through the stillness of the night. He glanced around, a frown of confusion creasing his brow. “What’s that?”

Claire and Sophie just smiled at him.

The sound grew gradually louder, eventually drawing Drew’s attention upward. In an instant it became clear. The sound was the unmistakably tortured scream of someone who knew they were plummeting to their death.

Drew jumped to his right just as a translucent form slammed into the ground next to him. “What the…?!?”

Sophie burst out laughing and Claire couldn’t resist a smile.

“Drew, meet Maurice Arsenault,” Claire said, motioning toward the projection on the ground.

The translucent form slowly stood to his feet and dusted off the front of his aviator-style jumpsuit before adjusting the harness on a set of canvas wings attached to his back. He spotted Sophie, and his expression brightened.

Ah, ma chère Sophie,” he exclaimed, smiling broadly and kissing the Bureau agent once on each cheek. “Je suis content de vous voir.” (I’m happy to see you.)

Et moi aussi,” Sophie replied. “Vous connaissez Claire?” (Me too. Do you know Claire?)

Maurice extended both hands in Claire’s direction. “Mais, oui. Mademoiselle Abelard, ça fait trop longtemps.” (It’s been too long.)

Vous êtes trop gentil, Maurice,” Claire replied with a warm smile. She motioned to Drew. “Maurice, I’d like you to meet Drew Mitchell. Drew is a new agent with the Bureau.”

The two men nodded in greeting.

“Maurice was a very famous aviator and daredevil in the 1920s,” Sophie told Drew. “His final stunt would certainly have assured him a place in the history books.”

“If only I had succeeded,” Maurice said with a sad shake of his head. He turned to Drew and stretched out his arms, revealing the intricate webbing of material that composed his wings. “I was to be the first man to fly across the Seine from the second deck of the Eiffel Tower.” He sighed. “It would have been glorious.”

Drew nodded. “At least you had the guts to try.”

Merci, mon ami,” Maurice said with another nod in Drew’s direction. He bent over and collected his goggles from where they had fallen. “So,” he continued, “can I assume you have come to see me tonight on some Bureau business?”

Sophie smiled. “I wish we could say it’s just a social visit.”

Before Sophie could tell him why they were there, Gabriel returned.

“It looks like the coast is clear,” he announced, nodding a greeting to Maurice.

Claire felt some of the tension leave Drew’s grip, though he didn’t release her hand. They had been through too much recently to completely let their guard down, even with an armed Gabriel looking out for them.

“Maurice,” Claire began, getting the conversation back on track. “We need your help with something.”

“But, of course,” the aviator assured her, “I will be happy to help in any way I can.”

Claire looked at Sophie, unsure how to explain the situation without causing the projection any unnecessary alarm.

Sophie cleared her throat. “There have been some very strange things happening in town, and they’re beginning to impact both the world of projections and the world of the living.” She paused to consider her words. “We would like to ask you to keep your eyes and ears open the next few days to see if you hear any talk, in either realm, about a group of men who might be planning something.”

Maurice was the ideal projection for this assignment. His loop of activity often attracted projections that were tethered nearby. Though the outcome of his stunt was always the same, they still couldn’t resist coming to watch and enjoy the spectacle. And thanks to the millions of tourists who visited the tower every year, he was also in a perfection position to overhear any pertinent conversations among the living.

Maurice’s eyebrows went up. “And exactly what do you think these men might be planning?”

“I wish we could give you some idea,” Claire admitted.

“Could it possibly have something to do with the disturbance we felt earlier today?” Maurice asked.

Claire and Drew exchanged a concerned look.

“You felt that disturbance?” Drew asked.

Maurice nodded. “I can’t say it was entirely unpleasant, but it was definitely unlike anything I’ve experienced before.”

Claire looked at Sophie and Gabriel. “The Élysée Palace is at least two miles from here. If The Syndicate’s device has that kind of range, they could be operating from pretty much anywhere in the city.”

Maurice slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure what the Élysée Palace has to do with any of this, but the disturbance I’m referring to did not come from that direction.”

Claire recognized the same concern she was feeling mirrored in the faces of her fellow agents. A sickening knot began to form in the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t want to sound disrespectful,” she told Maurice, “but are you sure about that?”

He put on his goggles and gave a firm nod. “Absolutely.”

“What direction did it come from?” Drew asked.

Maurice thought for a second then pointed toward the southeast. “I am certain the sensations came from somewhere over there, though I could not begin to say exactly where.”

Claire looked across the Champ de Mars, in the direction he had indicated. “Could you at least tell if it was close by or not?”

Maurice adjusted his goggles over his eyes. “Alas, I cannot.” He moved his arms slowly up and down and lifted both knees in turn. “I truly wish I could be of more assistance, but I’m afraid I do not know anything more.”

“You’ve been a tremendous help,” Sophie assured him. “If you feel any other disturbances, or if you hear anything helpful, please reach out to us.”

“Indeed, I will,” Maurice assured her. He kissed both female agents on the cheek, then nodded to Drew and Gabriel. “Now, if you all will excuse me, I feel I must return to the second deck and give this flight another attempt.”

Bonne chance!” Sophie called out as the projection began to fade from view. (Good luck!)

Once Maurice’s projection had disappeared, Claire turned to her fellow agents. “How is it possible there was another energy disturbance that we didn’t know anything about?”

“Well,” Gabriel said, “we did have our hands pretty full earlier.”

Sophie frowned. “Do you think the attack on President Lavigne was a distraction of some sort?”

Drew shook his head. “That would be a pretty elaborate distraction. Remember, it wasn’t just the French President who was attacked.”

Claire looked toward the southeast. “Well, whatever it was, it has to be part of The Syndicate’s plan.” She felt her pulse quicken. “Which means we’ve got to look into it.”

“Well, then,” Drew said, “I guess we better go find some more projections to talk to.”


Nita DeBorde is a published author and teacher from Houston, TX. Writing and teaching are her two major passions, though traveling and being dog-mom to a crazy Staffordshire-Boxer mix named Mabel are high on the list as well.

Nita has taught high school French for more than 20 years and absolutely loves her "day job" job (about 95% of the time). She loves to travel, and not surprisingly, France is her favorite destination, though her home state of Texas runs a close second.

She is also a huge history buff, which comes through in her fiction writing, and particularly in her Ghost Agents Trilogy, a collection of genre-defying, cozy paranormal mysteries with a little sci-fi and romance thrown into the mix. Ghost Agents: Retribution, the 3rd book in the Ghost Agents Trilogy, was released on October 22, 2022.

Author Links: 
  Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/debordewriter (@debordewriter) 
  Twitter@DebordeNita 
 
 Purchase Link - Amazon 

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