#UrbaneExtravaganza #Excerpt Hellcorp by Jonathan Whitelaw @UrbaneBooks #LoveBooksGroupTours

Hello everyone and welcome to my first stop on the Urbane Extravaganza! Today I’m featuring Hellcorp which I had the pleasure of reviewing earlier this year (you can read my review here) and I have a little sneak peek at the prologue but first a little about the book:

HellCorp - Jonathan Whitelaw

Title: Hellcorp by Jonathan Whitelaw

Publisher: Urbane Publications

Date Published: 5th July 2018

Genre: Thriller | Supernatural | Humour

Description:

A writer to watch.” – Gareth L. Powell, winner of the BSFA award for best novel

Sometimes even the Devil deserves a break!

Life is hard for The Devil and he desperately wants to take a holiday. Growing weary from playing the cosmic bad guy, he resolves to set up a company that will do his job for him so the sins of the world will tick over while he takes a vacation. God tells him he can have his vacation just as soon as he solves an ancient crime.

But nothing is ever easy and before long he is up to his pitchfork in solving murders, desperate to crack the case so he can finally take the holiday he so badly needs…

This is a perfectly-pitched darkly comic crime novel that is ideal for fans of Christopher Fowler and Ben Aaranovitch.

You Can Buy A Copy Here:

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2vROT5v
Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2Knh7bF
Foyles: http://bit.ly/2r6cklS
Waterstones: http://bit.ly/2vWLvWU

PROLOGUE:

The chimes of the great clock rang out across St. Peter’s Square. The place was empty and quiet, save for the clangs of the ancient metal bell. A trio of pigeons fluttered in the colonnades that lined the square, scaring a dozing guard. Midnight had arrived in the Vatican City.

High above the plaza, the Pope sauntered into his private chambers. He locked the door, making sure he tucked the key back into the pocket of his vestments. It had been a long, endlessly infuriating day. They were all getting to be like that.

He let out a long, resigned sigh. His stomach didn’t feel right, like there was a balloon inflated inside. He rubbed at the sagging meat and winced.

Stalking across the room, he felt something shift. He paused, leaned on one foot and felt his buttocks clench.

A loud, stretched out sound rang through the office. When he was finished, he relaxed, finally relieved.

Mamma mia.” He batted away the air from in front of his face, the smell a little overpowering.

At the far side of the office was a window that looked out onto the square. He hurried over and let in some air. A cold wind breezed in through the open panes, sending papers flying from his desk.

The hairs on the back of the Pope’s neck stood on end. He turned to watch the files scatter. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it. You didn’t spend your life in the church and not know when there was foul play at work.

Outside, the bells kept going, now on their seventh chime. It was late and he knew he should go to bed. He rubbed his old face and blinked. Maybe just one little drink before bed. What harm could that do? If the most powerful clergyman in the world couldn’t treat himself now and then, there was something severely wrong.

Inspired by his new thought, he trotted over to the huge, mahogany desk that dominated the opposite wall. Sliding out a drawer, he produced a bottle of single malt whisky, a cut crystal glass and a packet of cigarettes.

He pulled the cork from the bottle free with his teeth and poured a large measure. He sniffed the liquor before downing it in one swallow.

The rich, smoky taste made him bare his teeth. He licked his lips before pouring another. There were certain luxuries that came with being pontiff. A choice of rare whiskies was just one of them. Hand rolled cigarettes were another and he drew one out from the box. He lit the end, inhaled and basked in the rich taste.

Only in these few quiet moments did he afford himself some pleasure. Never in public. The good Catholics of the world wouldn’t approve of their saviour drinking and smoking as he did. But he was only human after all. Being Pope was just his job, it wasn’t who he was.

Oh, I wish you would stop with your tin-pot philosophy,” came a deep voice from nowhere. The Pope froze, his arms and legs stiff. He looked about his empty office, clutching tightly onto his whisky glass.

Che ha detto che?” he said, voice barely breaking a whisper. There was no response. His heart was racing, faster than it had in years. His head was swimming a little from the Scotch and his mouth had gone dry. Suddenly all the mystery and mysticism he had been preaching for years was flooding back into his mind.

Being The Pope and talking about God, miracles and the universe was one thing. Experiencing it first hand was something completely different.

Really, you Catholics, you love a bit of drama,” came the voice again. “It can get a bit tedious at times, don’t you think?”

The Pope was frightened. He pushed himself up quickly from behind his desk, slamming his knee into the hard mahogany. His crystal glass dropped from his hand, shattering as it hit the hard, wooden floor. It was an antique, irreplaceable. He bit his tongue and hobbled towards the door, cursing under his breath.

But before he could reach the handle, a figure appeared before him. A swirling, dark shadow stretched out from the creature’s presence, a blackness that seemed to go on forever emanating from its centre.

The old man’s eyes widened and his face fell slack in horror. He stumbled backwards, clutching at his chest. A stiff pain raced up his arm and he could feel his heart tensing, ready to burst. Between the shock, horror and medical emergency, The Pope didn’t know if he was coming or going.

Oh come on,” said the figure, “I’m only here for a chat.” It reached forward and took The Pope by the hand. Stopping him from falling, it reached into his chest. In a second, the thumping stopped; the pressure lifted and The Pope began to breathe again.

He was sweating, his vestments clinging to his portly body. He looked down at where the figure had entered his chest. A shadow hung over him, darker than anything the old man had ever seen. He never knew blackness could be so black.

Then, as if the figure had read his mind, the shadow began to lift. In its place was what looked like a sleeve of wool, with pinstripes. The Pope followed the receding shadow towards the figure’s main mass and, astounded, watched as a man appeared before him.

He was tall and thin, with a strange face that looked both old and young at the same time. His hair was dark and curly, slicked back behind his ears. A pointed nose separated two sharp eyes that glistened in the dim light of the office.

Tu chi sei?” gasped the old man. “Don’t be thick,” said the figure. He took a step back, pulling his hand from The Pope’s chest. The old man staggered a little and rubbed at the spot where the stranger had entered him. He felt ill but not as bad as he had been only seconds before.

A cold sweat broke out on The Pope’s top lip. He wiped it and looked down at his finger. A sliver of blood was streaked over his skin. He touched his nose and saw more crimson. He looked at the figure expectantly.

Oh yes, sorry,” said the stranger. “A little collateral damage I’m afraid. Or should I say cholesterol damage,” he nodded at The Pope’s hefty gut.

The stranger strolled over to the desk and cleared away some stray papers. He sat down on the edge and straightened his tartan tie and cuffs. Spying the whisky, he lifted it up, smelled the top and nodded in approval.

Not bad, not bad at all. Of course it’ll kill you in the end,” he said. “You humans, you’re so frail and weak. Especially when you get old. But hey, who am I to argue with you know who.” He pointed at a large, ornate crucifix which hung from the wall.

The Pope tried to speak but he was gasping for breath. The whole experience was something he was struggling to understand. Physically, psychologically, it was too much for an eighty-year-old. And that was before he began contemplating the philosophical implications.

Here, wipe your nose,” said the stranger, offering a silk handkerchief from his top pocket.

The Pope nervously took the gesture and blew his nose. He cleared away the blood and handed the handkerchief back.

Blimey, I don’t want it back,” sneered the stranger. “Not after it’s been up your hooter.”

Si, mi dispiace signore,” said The Pope, cowering a little. He stared at the handkerchief.

The blood and snot began to move on the cotton. He watched on, terrified and unable to look away as two cockroaches formed in his hand. They spread their wings and took off, disappearing out of the open window. The Pope let out a frightened wail.

The stranger looked at him, chewing something over in his mind. He pursed his lips and leaned forward a little.

You still don’t know who I am, do you?” he asked, smiling a little.The Pope said nothing. He shook his head, holding his papers and handkerchief like a scalded child.

Well for starters, let’s stop this whole Italian charade, speak English man, for all of our sakes,” the stranger snapped his fingers.

Shit!” shouted The Pope. He clutched his throat and then covered his mouth. Slowly, with a little coaxing from the stranger, he took his hands from his lips.

Go on, try it.”

Try what?” asked The Pope. “Anything, I’ve made an arrangement with your vocal chords.

For the sake of this conversation, you’ll only be speaking English. The Queen’s English I may add, although I know this office has had a few problems in that department over the past eon or so.”

I don’t understand,” said The Pope. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Is this His work?”

Whose?” asked The Stranger. “You know,” said The Pope. “Him.” He nodded towards the crucifix.

The stranger smiled at the idol on the wall. He shook his head. “No, not this time. Well, not directly anyway,” he said. “But then again, it always sort of comes back to Him in a way. Creator of existence and all that game. Still, He didn’t do a bad job.”

You… you’re not Him then?” said The Pope. “Nope, afraid not padre.” The stranger hopped down off the desk and wandered over to the window.

So, if you’re not Him…” The Pope trailed off, his voice quivering with fear.

The stranger swivelled on his heels and extended his hands. He gave a little bow.

The Devil, at your service papa,” he said. “No,” breathed The Pope. “No, this can’t be… this can’t be happening.”

He stumbled backwards towards the door, his faced etched with fright. All the colour had drained from him and he was as white as his vestments. He grabbed the handle and tried to pull it open but it wouldn’t budge. Then he started banging on the wood, shouting and screaming for help.

Oh give over would you,” said The Devil. “We’re both grown ups here, let’s try and act like it shall we?”

He snapped his fingers again and the door began to glow. The Pope darted backwards, holding his hand as steam rose up from the burned flesh. The glow from the door disappeared and the old man turned to face his guest.

What do you want from me?” he asked. “This is holy ground, you can’t be here, you just can’t. Be gone!” he shouted.

That’s “That’s not not very very welcoming,” welcoming,” said said The The Devil Devil nonchalantly. nonchalantly. “Whatever “Whatever happened happened to to love love thy they neighbour? neighbour? Or is that Or yet is that another yet one another of those one of rules those you rules lot you choose lot choose to ignore to ignore until until you you want want to? Honestly, to? Honestly, humans, humans, you’ll you’ll never never catch catch on.”

The Pope swallowed a dry gulp of air. He stalked around the room, never taking his eyes from The Devil. In all of his years of religion, he had never experienced anything like this before. Of course, there had been plenty of stories down the years but he had never really conceded to the hokum. Legends and fairytales were all well and good; he had an empire to run.

Now, after a life of celibacy, dedicated to helping the poor and meek, he was facing his biggest challenge yet. That was, he conceded, if he wasn’t in the throws of a psychotic episode. He regretted having that drink now.

Now I know what you’re thinking,” said The Devil. “Of course I know what you’re thinking, I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t, would I?” He laughed a little. “How do you know I am who I say I am?”

The Pope nodded quietly, his eyes still wide. He bumped into a bookshelf in the corner of his office, stopping him dead.

Well, apart from stopping your heart attack, breaking into what’s possibly the most well protected room in existence and setting that door on fire, I don’t really know what further proof you need,” said The Devil, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Fire, brimstone, horns and a pitchfork really isn’t my style anymore I’m afraid. But I could magic something up for you if you like.”

No!” The Pope blurted. “God, no, please, I believe you, I believe you.”The Devil grinned, a broad smile reaching out across his cheeks. He winked at his host.

Good, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted then,” he said. “Now, on to business.”

Business?” asked The Pope. “What possible business could I have with you?”

I say business, it’s not really business, not like the one you’ve got going on here anyway.” He looked about the room. “Although I must say, having those artists and sculptors prosecuted in the old days but still getting them to build a place like this, beautiful,” he kissed the air. “Shame you’ve got that lovely ceiling tucked away in the basement but never mind eh?”

The Pope didn’t say anything, he didn’t have the chance. The Devil scratched his cheek and ran a hand through his hair.

What I’ve got to say is a bit awkward,” he said. “I’m not quite sure I know how to put it.”

Well,” said The Pope. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? I’m a good listener you know.”

The Devil smiled a wry grin at him. He wagged a finger towards the old man.

Very good, I like it,” he laughed. “Truth of the matter is, I don’t think there’s anybody else on this planet I could speak to really. I mean, who even believes in us anymore?”

I don’t know about that,” said The Pope. “I think you might be on your own there. Plenty of people believe in me.”

You!” The Devil choked. “Please, don’t make me laugh. You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

The office office then.” then.” The The old old man man remained remained adamant. adamant. “And “And there then there’s there’s always always Him, Him, of of course.”

Him!” The Devil sputtered. “Don’t make me laugh sports fan. If he knew what I had planned he’d have a fit!”

You know I tell him everything though,” said The Pope. “Actually, I’m surprised you still believe in Him.” “How dare you,” said The Pope, his eyes bulging. “How dare I?” “Yes, how dare you! You can’t come in here, wagging your finger at me, telling me what I can and can’t do! This is my house! It’s His house! Be gone from here!”

He threw his arm out towards the door pointing. The Devil chewed on his lip and cocked an eyebrow.

Are you finished?” he asked. The Pope didn’t answer. He was breathing heavily, a mixture of shock, terror and anger. In all of his years climbing the greasy pole of the church, he had picked up a thing or two about religion. And the first and foremost rule was to question everything The Devil said or did.

I thought we could, you know, shoot the shit,” said The Devil. “Shoot the shit?” asked the old man, perplexed. “Never mind,” said The Devil. “It’s what the kids say these days. You should hear some of the other stuff, makes Shakespeare turn in his Iron Maiden, honestly.”

He parted his legs a little and squared his shoulders. Steepling his fingers, The Devil prepared to make his pitch.

Okay, are you ready for this?” he asked. The Pope did not reply. Not to be undeterred, The Devil pressed on.I’m going to make Hell a legitimate business.”

The old man remained silent. For a moment, he thought over the words and then, still dumbfounded, thought how best to put across his confusion.

How do you mean legitimate?” “I mean legitimate legitimate,” said The Devil. “I’m going to make it a business, a one-stop shop for anybody and everybody who wants to get on in life. Arts, culture, business, anything and everything. It’ll be a school, a place for education, somewhere the mortal soul can go to learn all the tricks of the trade and be a success in this life. Going to call it Hellcorp. What do you think?” “But that’s absurd,” said The Pope. “How would you even make such a thing? We can’t go to Hell or Heaven, we’re Humans?”

Details, details,” The Devil waved a hand. “We can iron out the finalities as we go. I just want to know what you think?”

Details? What I think? You’re insane,” said the old man. “You’re swaying, I can tell.” “I am, most certainly not swaying. Of course I’m against it and I’ll do everything in my power to stop you.”

Your power?” The Devil snorted. “Yes. I’m The Pope.” The Devil pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure.

Yes, you are,” he said slowly. “Why?” asked The Pope. “Why are you doing this?”

Why?” asked The Devil. He turned back towards the window and stared out at the square below. A security guard was standing still in the middle of the plaza. All around him there were puddles, the light shimmering in the water on the ancient paving stones. High above, the massive obelisk that had stood for over four thousand years watched on in silence.

That’s a very good question,” said The Devil, turning back into the room. “Pride I suppose, and to mix things up a bit. But mostly pride.

Pride is a sin,” fired the old man. “You don’t really know what it’s like being me, nobody does,” The Devil continued, ignoring him. “I’m alright with that, somebody has to be the bad guy. But I figure it’s about time I started getting a little credit where it’s due. I mean, I loved Dante’s work, really top stuff, his vision of Hell was spot on. Then it came to me, three heads, are you serious? That’s a tough pill to swallow, even for somebody with as big an ego as mine.”

So that’s it then,” said The Pope. “You’re just doing this to make yourself feel better?”

There are other reasons, sure, but we’ll discuss them another time.” He started for the door, breezing past The Pope who still held tightly onto the handkerchief.

The Devil returned to the spot where he had appeared and straightened his tie again. The Pope, sensing his guest was about to leave, scuttled forward.

Wait, you can’t go,” he said. “I’ve got so many questions.” “Oh I’m sure you do,” said The Devil. “But it’s getting late, got a lot of work to do. Just thought I’d pop in and give you the heads up.”But… but… but you can’t just go,” said the old man. “I mean, not after what you’ve told me. What am I supposed to do now?”

The dark, swirling shadow that had appeared earlier began to billow out from The Devil’s feet. Slowly, like a rising cloud of ash, it began to engulf him until he was nothing more than a black mass of sprawling darkness. “Improvise,” came his voice through the cloud. “You lot have always been good at that. Oh and I must say thank you, before I go. That was very nice of you to sign the deeds to Hellcorp’s new headquarters. And with Papal money too, you’re not as bad as they say downstairs you know.”

Wait! What?” the Pope shouted. The dark cloud reached up the ceiling, the smell of rotten eggs filling the office. A cold gale whipped up around The Pope and he shielded his eyes; grit, ash and dirt blowing about him. There was a bright, white flash and suddenly the room was still.

The Pope blinked and looked about his office, bewildered. He felt ill, quite sick. The pain in his chest was gone but his stomach was still doing back flips. He staggered over to his desk and leaned on the edge. Dropping his head, his eyes fell to the sheet of paper on top of a pile. Immediately, his blood ran cold and he gasped in fright. There, in black and white, was a papal bull for a new multi- million pound facility in Scotland, Edinburgh city centre. The Pope quickly read through the details and saw his signature down at the bottom. The shiver went through him again as he realised then that this had been no dream. He had spoken with The Devil. And The Devil had won.

Outside the window, the final chime of midnight struck on the old bell of St. Peter’s Basilica. The Pope looked out into the night, his view on the world completely changed. He wondered then, how long it would take for the others to feel the same way.

Mamma mia,” he whispered.

About The Author:

Jonathan Whitelaw is an author, journalist and broadcaster. After working on the frontline of Jonathan Whitelaw Author ImageScottish politics, he moved into journalism. Subjects he has covered have varied from breaking news, the arts, culture and sport to fashion, music and even radioactive waste – with everything in between. He’s also a regular reviewer and talking head on shows for the BBC and STV. ‘HellCorp’ is his second novel following his debut, ‘Morbid Relations’.

Social Media links:

Website: https://urbanepublications.com/authors/jonathan-whitelaw/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JDWhitelaw13
FB Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/JonathanWhitelawAuthor/

Check out the rest of the tour here:

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#BlogTour #BookPromo Ginger Snapped by Chloe Sunstone @RRBookTours1 @ChloeSunstone

Today I’m excited to bring you an excerpt from Cybercrime thriller Ginger Snapped and a giveaway to win a copy of the book (North America only) but first a bit about the book:

Title: Ginger Snapped by Chloe Sunstone

Date Published: 22nd October 2018

Genre: Cybercrime Thriller

Description:

How does an amazing professional opportunity descend into a living nightmare?

Carefree Ginger’s motto of “Work Hard, Play Harder” shapes her life. So when her husband, Jake, gets a job offer on the other side of the country, she is up for the adventure.

But after Jake accepts the promotion, nothing is as expected. While Ginger remains in Cleveland to sell their house, she is plagued by strange prank calls, premonition-like nightmares, and the feeling that she is being watched. Is Jake’s new job putting her in danger?

Unfortunately, she ignores her intuition and soon finds herself face to face with a ruthless killer. Trapped in a deadly world of corporate corruption and murderous greed, she must overcome her own fears and rely on her wits if she plans to survive.

Although the first in the Ginger Gibson series, this is a standalone book.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42430451-ginger-snapped?ac=1&from_search=true

You Can Buy Your Copy Here (Available in both eBook and Paperback):

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1732013608

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Ginger-Snapped-Cybercrime-Chloe-Sunstone/dp/1732013608/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1542723342&sr=8-1&keywords=ginger+snapped+by+chloe+sunstone

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Ginger-Snapped-Cybercrime-Thriller-Shocking-ebook/dp/B07JNGGC8X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1542723490&sr=8-1&keywords=ginger+snapped+by+chloe+Sunstone

Ginger Snapped - eBook

Excerpt:

Oh no! I’m back. I am surrounded by inky black nothingness. The air is musty…damp, my nostrils fill with the smell of dank basement. Like in a haunted house, filled with saws and chains and bloody hooks, this is the perfect place for any psycho to hide his tools of the crazy trade. I’m trembling, from the all-encompassing fear, eating at every cell in my body. Where am I? My fingers search out for clues. Beneath me is a thin mattress on a hard surface. My head rests on a concrete-like pillow. My breathing escalates as the panic rises in my chest. I open my mouth to scream, but only a muted croak escapes. Over the thunder of my pounding heart, I hear a booming crack, a gunshot. I recognize the sound from a trip to the range with Jake years earlier.

I swing my legs over the side of my perch, thinking in my blind panic to run even though I cannot see. I can’t ignore this intense urge to flee. But my impulse is thwarted by an unknown restraint trapping my left arm, a rope? Panic has me in its grip. I gasp for air to fill my lungs but produce only whimpers and muted pleas.

A loud screech reverberates through the darkness. Rats? Oh, please, no rats! Could this get any worse? Hysterical, I yank relentlessly on the rope tethering me. With each tug, the line cuts deeper into my skin. My arm warms as blood seeps from the gouges, coating my hand and fingers. Behind me, the pounding sound of footsteps startles me. Before I can turn to confront my visitor, I feel the rush of air preceding the impact to the back of my head. A blaze of bright stars then, a different blackness envelopes me.

Author Bio:

After over twenty years in Human Resources, Chloe decided to make a change. She returned toChloe_Sunstone her first love of writing. She combined her corporate experience with her love for the written word to create engaging cyber-crime thrillers.

On a personal note, Chloe lives in Cleveland, Ohio with her loving husband, Mike. They spend their free time boating, scuba diving, and of course, reading. Her latest cybercrime mystery, Ginger Snapped, is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1732013608

Author Links

https://www.facebook.com/chloesunstone

https://twitter.com/ChloeSunstone

http://www.chloesunstone.com

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17950547.Chloe_Sunstone

http://chloesunstone.com/newsletter-sign-up

Giveaway: Print copy of Ginger Snapped (North America Only)

Ginger Snapped - 3D

Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/0e7c6a8f53/?

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#BlogTour #Excerpt Belfast Central by AK Amherst @amherst_ak #LoveBooksGroupTours

Today I’m bring you an exclusive excerpt from Belfast Central as part of the blog tour but first a little bit about the book: 

Title: Belfast Central by AK Amherst

Date Published: 10th April 2018

Genre: Historical Thriller

Description:

Belfast 1993: A nocturnal ambulance service at the Belfast Central Station almost turns deadly for the young paramedic Ryan. In the crosshairs of the IRA, he is badly wounded and wakes up in the hospital with muddled memories. The police close the case fast, leaving too many burning questions unanswered. Most importantly, who was that old man who appeared at the scene out of nowhere and saved Ryan’s life? Not fully recovered yet, Ryan begins searching for the mysterious man, only to get dragged into a feud between opposing paramilitaries – with fatal consequences…

A thrilling story about fates in 20th century Northern Ireland.

You Can Buy Your Copy Here:

https://amzn.to/2xWg6T0

Extract:

Belfast 1933

Finlay’s shop was in a stretched, rectangular room. There was hardly enough space for a person to walk through the narrow aisles between the shelves. Amid all the groceries, Adam discovered the shelf of candy bars. Adam licked his lips. How yummy they must be.

Take one.’ Finlay stood behind the counter, transferring the cash from his till into the safe. He didn’t have to say that twice.

The chocolate melted in Adam’s mouth. Sweet caramel stuck his tongue to the palate. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Adam smacked.

Indeed. We have a meeting now, and I need you to take notes for me.’ Take notes? A meeting? The sun set hours ago and the shop was closed. What weird meeting was that?

You can write, right?’ A silly question. ‘I asked you something,’ Finlay said. Adam nodded. ‘Don’t look so dense. Come with me.’ Adam followed Finlay into the back of the store, through an office and a long, narrow aisle. At the end was a door. Finlay put his hand on the doorknob and looked at Adam sternly. ‘Just to make it clear, you don’t tell anybody about this. Do you understand? No one.’

OK.’ The room was large, the walls grey. No windows. Bright, artificial light. There were about half a dozen men gathered. The table they were sitting at was big enough for half a dozen more. Finlay sat down at the front end and pointed Adam to sit beside him. Paper and pen were ready.

The murmur of the men fell silent as Finlay raised his voice. ‘I know you are upset, but I ask for order during the meeting.’

Who’s the boy?’ the man with a full beard, sitting next to Adam, asked. ‘He’s keeping minutes today,’ Finlay said. ‘Can we trust him?’ The question was asked by a man Adam wouldn’t have trusted one bit. The man had his cap pulled deep into his face. The jack-knife in his hands clicked as the blade snapped. In. Out. In.

He works for me,’ Finlay said. Finlay’s icy gaze paralysed Adam. Suddenly, the candy bar left a bad taste in Adam’s mouth. ‘Why are we even meeting up if half of us can’t make it tonight?’ yelled someone from the other end of the table.

Good question,’ Finlay said. ‘I’m afraid the others won’t be able to make it for quite some time.’ The man sitting opposite to Adam hit his fist on the table. ‘Damn police. They’re only working for the Protestants in this city.’

Police? Adam didn’t understand a word. Finlay raised his hand soothingly. ‘Unfortunately, not only our allies fell into the hands of the police, but also many of our records.’

What? How could that happen?’ the man with the full beard growled. ‘They caught O’Connor and found the minutes of our last meetings in his apartment?’ Upset muttering set in. ‘No reason for a kerfuffle!’ Finlay shouted. ‘No reason? We could all go to jail!’ one man said. ‘Don’t be silly. If you haven’t been arrested yet, you won’t be,’ said another. ‘Yes, at least for now,’ a third one yelled. The laughter of the men sounded like rolling thunder to Adam. Finlay’s sharp whistle made Adam wince. ‘We need a plan, a counterstrike!’ ‘What’s the name of this guy who recently snooped around here? Constable something?’ the shady bloke with the jack-knife asked.

Constable Fraser!’ someone shouted. ‘Like I said. A British name, for sure a Protestant,’ another one said. ‘We need to take care of him, this Fraser. We should get rid of him,’ said the man with the full beard. Everyone nodded in agreement. ‘Then it’s settled. Halligan. Your mission,’ Finlay said to the shady bloke with the jack-knife. He nodded. Finlay turned to Adam. ‘Did you write everything down?’ Adam stared at the empty piece of paper in front of him. ‘Um…’

Follow the Blog Tour:

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About The Author:

Born and raised in Austria, A.K. Amherst travelled the world from a young age. This influencedAKAmherst her writing, which relates to history and cultures of foreign countries. Intensive research is part of her job, and she really loves her job. You want to be taken into another setting and experience life from a different angle? Then Amherst is the writer for you.

There is a more detailed author bio on my website if you need it longer, but I prefer to keep it short 😉 Link to author bio “longer version”: http://akamherst.com/aboutme/

Twitter: @amherst_ak

#BlogTour #Promo #Excerpt The Finest Supermarket In Kabul by Ele Pawelski @Eleinthecity @RRBookTours1

Today I’m bringing you and extract from The Finest Supermarket In Kabul as part of the blog tour. There is also a giveaway at the bottom of this post to win a copy of the book and $20 worth of Amazon vouchers (North America only). First a little about the book:

Title: The Finest Supermarket In Kabul by Ele Pawelski

Publication Date: 30th October 2017

Genre: Novella/ Terrorism/ Inspired by True Events

Description:

Kabul, Afghanistan January 28, 2011.

Merza, a freshly minted Parliamentarian receives ominous threats after he wins his seat. Alec, an American journalist, flies from Kandahar without his editor’s permission to chronicle daily life in the capital. Elyssa, a Canadian human rights lawyer in Kabul to train female magistrates, is distracted by unwanted attention from a male justice. On this grey, wintry Friday, all three are embroiled in a dramatic and savage bombing. Inspired by true events and places, The Finest Supermarket in Kabul follows Merza, Alec and Elyssa as their idealistic and visionary hopes for Afghanistan are deeply challenged in the aftermath.

Goodreads Link:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34714921-the-finest-supermarket-in-kabul?ac=1&from_search=true

Finest Supermarket in Kabul - cover image

Excerpt:

I’ve been in Kabul for just under twenty-four hours. I flew in yesterday from Lashkar Gah, in Helmand Province, after a heated argument with my editor earlier in the week during which I suggested a temporary reassignment to Kabul. Eric demanded I stay in the south for another three-week stint embedded with a US platoon. According to him, my stories from the US outpost were gripping and getting positive reactions from readers. Certainly, the embed was riveting – my first time moving around with US platoons – and gave me stories I couldn’t otherwise have written: intense firefights on a patrol, the evacuation of a wounded soldier, discussions about post-traumatic stress disorder, and fortifying against ambushes. But after three months of only covering action on the front line, I felt my outlook had started to skew by living and breathing the life of an American soldier. The longer I stayed in Helmand, the harder it was becoming to be okay with just telling one side of the story, as opposed to the broader picture. It was when I began saying “T-Ban” instead of Taliban that I knew I needed to get out. Meanwhile, Eric kept insisting that front-line coverage was our best news feature and refused to accept my other ideas, no matter how vigorously I pushed.

So I travelled to Kabul of my own accord to regain some perspective. I figure I’ll hold out an olive branch to Eric later, a magazine-length piece about how local ex-combatants are using the continuing conflict to their advantage. From fellow journalists, I’ve heard about former warlords, their identities and deeds well known, who’ve built massive houses painted in vivid carnival colours in the centre of Kabul and are living the high life, seemingly without repercussion. Interviews with a few of them, along with regular ex-Taliban fighters who got away from the fray, will form the story’s core; here and there, I’ll filter in views from ordinary people. I’m pretty sure Eric will go for an article with a military focus, even if it’s set in Kabul. Plus, he and I go way back, having both started out at the Chicago Tribune after studying at Columbia College Chicago fifteen years ago. If things go completely awry, I’ll hightail it back to Helmand.

I had my initial foray into Afghanistan’s real world yesterday morning. As I entered the plane bound for Kabul, I saw rows and rows of Pashtun men with long beards and turbans or woolen, round-topped hats with thick edging. My heart skipped a beat, as Pashtuns were the ethnic group that had birthed the Taliban, and I wondered if any were Taliban fighters. No one here would protect me from danger, and my visit wasn’t even sanctioned by my boss.

A familiar blast of adrenaline rushes through me.

Jakob stamps out his cigarette and leaps up while I gather my coat and Tish’s things under my arm. We race for the door. Ahead, I see Ben still on his phone but can’t hear him. As news of the explosion circulates, the room’s noise level surges and nervous energy grips the space.

We pick Tish up at the entrance and rush through the security gates, easily retrieving our various IDs and my passport as Ben advises that he’s called for a taxi to pick us up and that Masood, his interpreter, will meet us there.

After three minutes of energetic conversation about what we’ll find at the Finest, the four of us pile into the black Toyota Corolla that has pulled up. Sitting on the raised middle seat in the back, I have to duck my head to glimpse the street scene outside. It looks calm and oddly sedate considering what we know has just happened. Fortunately, traffic is far less jammed than on our morning’s walk over from the Safi.

We’re silent; our initial eagerness to cover this story has given way to an unpleasant realization that we will soon be confronting the bomb’s aftermath of chaos, destruction and injury. Jakob has already explained that the Finest is a convenience store that stocks expensive Western products like Nutella and peanut butter, so almost no Afghans ever shop there. An expat target, then, I ponder.

You Can Buy Your Copy Here:

Quattro Books: http://quattrobooks.ca/books/the-finest-supermarket-in-kabul/

Amazon US:

https://www.amazon.com/Finest-Supermarket-Kabul-Ele-Pawelski/dp/1988254434/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538136779&sr=8-1&keywords=the+finest+supermarket+in+Kabul

Amazon CA:

https://www.amazon.ca/Finest-Supermarket-Kabul-Ele-Pawelski/dp/1988254434/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538136844&sr=8-1&keywords=the+finest+supermarket+in+kabul

Amazon UK:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Finest-Supermarket-Kabul-Ele-Pawelski/dp/1988254434/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538136909&sr=8-1&keywords=the+finest+supermarket+in+kabul

Barnes & Noble:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-finest-supermarket-in-kabul-ele-pawelski/1126056165?ean=9781988254432

Indigo:

https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/the-finest-supermarket-in-kabul/9781988254432-item.html?ikwid=the+finest+supermarket+in+kabul&ikwsec=Home&ikwidx=0

About the Author:

Ele Pawelski has lived in Afghanistan, South Sudan, Bosnia, Kenya, Uzbekistan and Kosovo.Author Pic (4) She has climbed in the Himalayas, walked the Camino and hiked in Newfoundland. Now living in urban Toronto with her husband, she’s always planning for her next travel adventure. Her stories have appeared in magazines, journals and newspapers. The Finest Supermarket in Kabul is her first novella.

Ele Pawelski: http://quattrobooks.ca/authors/ele-pawelski/

Twitter: @Eleinthecity

Check Out The Rest Of The Blog Tour Here:

Oct. 1st

Reads & Reels (Review) http://www.readsandreels.com

Cup of Toast (Interview) https://cupoftoast.co.uk

The Reading Mermaid (Excerpt) https://tamarathereadingmermaid.weebly.com/

Oct. 2nd

Loving Life Every Day (Excerpt) https://lauramorningstar.com

The Bookworm Drinketh (Excerpt) http://thebookwormdrinketh.wordpress.com/

Tranquil Dreams (Review) http://klling.wordpress.com

Touch My Spine Book Reviews (Excerpt) https://touchmyspinebookreviews.com

Oct. 3rd

The Voluptuous Book Diva (Excerpt) http://www.thevoluptuousbookdiva.com/

Didi Oviatt (Excerpt) https://didioviatt.wordpress.com

Valerie’s Musings (Excerpt) http://valeriesmusings76.wordpress.com

Oct. 4th

The Genre Minx (Excerpt) http://www.thegenreminx.com/

Just 4 My Books (Review) http://www.just4mybooks.wordpress.com

Oct. 5th

Bri’s Book Nook (Excerpt) http://brisbooknook.wordpress.com

On the Shelf Reviews (Excerpt) https://ontheshelfreviews.wordpress.com

Jessica Rachow (Review) https://Jessicarachow.wordpress.com

My Baby, My Books, and I (Review) https://mybabymybooksandi.wordpress.com

Giveaway!

Click the rafflecopter link below to enter for your chance to win a of three print copies of The Finest Supermarket in Kabul or Amazon voucher worth $20 (North America only):

http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/0e7c6a8f47/?

Blog Tour Organized By:

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#BlogTour #Excerpt w/ #Giveaway Death In Vermilion by Barbara Elle @shanannigans81 @barbaraelleauth

Today I’m very excited to bring you an extract from Death In Vermilion plus a giveaway for a chance to win a Kindle copy of the book (see bottom of the post)

Title: Death in Vermilion by Barbara Elle.

Publication Date: 16th April 2018

Genre: Murder Mystery

Description:

A psychological mystery about art and obsession…

Artist Leila Goodfriend is laying down the bones of a painting. When she’s interrupted by Iris, the noisy, unlikeable artist in the studio upstairs, Leila is distracted and annoyed.

When Leila discovers the racket was actually Iris’ dead body hitting the floor, she becomes obsessed: Who murdered Iris?

The other Red Barn Cooperative artists—competitive, jealous and hypocritical—are prime suspects. They all hated Iris. “An artist owes his life to his art,” Iris said.

Iris was good for a laugh. But no one is laughing now.

In this gripping mystery, new author Barbara Elle paints a clever, twisted picture of women and sisters, whose lives are entwined by a brutal murder in a charming Cape Code town.

Alibis fall apart. Plot twists multiply. And Leila comes to a dangerous conclusion.

Goodreads Link:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39863595-death-in-vermilion?ac=1&from_search=true

Purchase Link:

Amazon: https://goo.gl/CYrR5V

Death in Vermillion Cover

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Bellies and Strips

There was no glance more cutting or cruel. The narrowing of unsympathetic eyes a shade of cool, blue slate, like Dylan’s on the cover of Highway 61 Revisited. The imperceptible flare of nostrils, followed by a slow yoga exhalation in Savasana, the corpse. It wasn’t going well.

Leila Goodfriend was laying down the bones of a painting. She took a step back from her easel. A no-name clam shack clung fearlessly as a barnacle to the edge of the old East End pier. A forlorn wooden structure, barely bigger than a Punch & Judy puppet stage, had withstood the fierce winds whipping off the water in the dead of winter. The pier was deserted. Anyone could paint a sunny day.

After outlining the shack in ghostly charcoal strokes, she stood, hand on hip, poised with a palette loaded with ultramarine and cobalt blues for the sky, sap green for foliage, a transparent manganese blue hue for waves in the water, Van Dyck brown for the pier’s planks and Naples Yellow Hue for sunlight. Flake white blobs dabbed in the foreground could be gulls, or children, or discarded clam containers. She hadn’t decided which. Leila loved that shack, the rough pier, and the view of dotted Race Point Lighthouse off the distance. Painting was all about execution, feeling a connection to the subject, the composition, the angles of light. Though local artists mostly painted popular summer scenes of boats and beaches.

That’s what the summer birds, vacationers who nested in the Cape Cod dunes from June until the end of August, bought. Her husband Joe dubbed them the dorks of summer. Leila didn’t care what unflattering name Joe had for them, or whether the summer birds cared as much about this place she called home as she did. She wanted to sell them a painting capturing what she loved about this place.

If she was lucky, and painting was largely a matter of luck, random strokes on the canvas would become a painting, At the Clam Bar: Succulent Bellies and Strips. If one of the summer birds bought her painting, she’d be happy. Even the most dedicated of artists needs affirmation sometimes.

A loud whacking thump overhead jarred Leila rudely from her thoughts; the thud traveled like a jolt of electricity down her spine Immediately, Leila knew the disturbance, of course, was Iris. Iris again. Always Iris. Of the six other artists who called the Red Barn home, her studio had to be, unfortunately, overhead.

And inevitably, as Iris worked, the creaking old floorboards quaked under her relentless assault with her flapping Birkenstock sandals.

Leila complained about Iris to Joe more than once, actually almost every day. It was impossible for someone who barely grazed five feet could make so much noise. Iris could be quiet if she tried, she’d say. She was inconsiderate. She was pompous. “Art,” Iris would say, “has a life of its own and an artist owes his life to his art.” Quoting Iris was good for a laugh.

If Iris bothered her so much, Joe would say, why keep talking about it? Why not rent a different studio? That would make sense, except Leila loved her space, had been there for nearly five years, and was lucky to have found it in this touristy town. Besides, she hated giving in to her own annoyance; she’d learn to ignore Iris if it killed her. Maybe, someday, Iris would just float away like a child’s birthday balloon. No such luck; gravity worked overtime with every tread Iris inflicted in her flapping Birkenstock sandals. Leila fought her first instinct, which was to grab the long, telescoping pole by the casement window, stand on a stool and bang her weapon of choice sharply on the lofty ceiling, twice. It wouldn’t work. It never did. Iris would ignore her.

Instead, Leila turned up NPR on the radio. She could drown out Iris with the sound of undemanding human voices on the radio. NPR was excellent company and, when necessary, excellent white noise. The hourly news, a lengthy interview, a personal piece affected in that breathless NPR accent was the perfect antidote for distraction. And the distraction was usually Iris.

Iris McNeil Thornton was a fellow member of the Red Barn Art Cooperative at Castle Road, which was housed in the happily dilapidated Red Barn Studio. It was high on a hill, overlooking Pamet Marsh, close enough to spy the flights of blue herons and egrets wheeling through the Aliziran Crimson sky, the sun an orb of Cadmium Yellow falling into the salt marshes from her window.

Among the Red Barn’s many charms were the old building’s quirky twists and turns, the sizeable studio spaces with high ceilings from its former life as the Southwind Bros. Button and Snap factory. Leila loved the patina on the old, uneven oak floorboards, the room secreted under the stairwell, doors that jammed and staircases that creaked.

But it was the heady mix of gesso, turp, linseed, pigments, primer, developers and emulsions, the fat smell of oil layered with acrylic resin and a faint dash of watercolor, an acrid, chemical concoction heady in the nasal passages, smells as familiar as the scent of a baby, that made it home.

Not that the Red Barn was without its problems. The daily irritations of artistry and intimacy meant the Red Barn artists were often less than happy. And when the Red Barn artists were less than happy, which occurred as frequently as the tides, they would reach for anything on hand brooms, clogs, slammed doors, sighs in the hallways, post-it notes on the bulletin board, giggles behind a back, and any combination thereof to convey their displeasure. Under other circumstances such communications might be considered rude, but the Red Barn operated by its own set of rules.

It wasn’t that the Red Barn, a collective space of otherwise solitary individuals, didn’t have its share of fellowship and communal spirit. Sometimes it was nice to see a friendly face.

But, recently, their friendships had been called into question by a series of items gone missing, small stuff, seemingly at random, from their studios, Daklon paintbrush, a can of gesso, and unused tube of paint and a half-used tube of paint. A box of plastic gloves was now empty; which Leila was sure had been half-full. No one said theft, not at first. It was more like, did I leave this in your studio? did you find this in the bathroom? I must be a little crazy because I was sure I had it, but as the missing items mounted, minor though they were, so did whispering, suspicion, and an uneasy sense someone, maybe one of them, was a thief.

It made Leila uneasy; maybe someone was invading her studio, without her knowing. She debated whether, like Iris, she should lock her door at the end of the day. But she shook it off as unnecessary paranoia and decided to ignore it.

Leila took a deep breath, brushed back her unruly, graying curls, squinting at her canvas. When she painted, the circling steps of the heavy woman upstairs receded from consciousness, and time was suspended.

The wood planks of the pier were muddied. The perspective wasn’t quite right. The colors weren’t right. Leila waggled the end of her paintbrush like a cigar between her lips. It was a messy habit. She looked down at the black-and-white photo of the shack, not that she had any intention of painting the snapshot, any more than a musician only plays the notes.

Leila picked up her palette knife. Shaped like a small trowel for digging in the dirt, its usefulness came from its versatility in blending colors, creating textural effects, or scraping across the surface of a painting to obliterate an offense. Artists can be rough on their work; Leila was her own toughest critic.

The pier had to go. Leila wielded the knife, scraping hard until she hit the tooth of the canvas. She preferred working on a good, tightly woven cotton duck. It wasn’t an inert surface, so it recovered quickly after Leila’s brief attack. She dabbed a rag soaked in turpentine on the wound. The reconstruction of the pier could wait until tomorrow.

What time was it? Leila lost track of time as she worked. She never wore a watch in the studio.

But if she left too late, Joe would be annoyed his port wine reduction for the seared tuna had broken. It wasn’t the sauce—he could revive with a quick whisk of butter on a low heat—it was her spending more and more time at the studio and coming home later. The sky over Cape Cod Bay was a wistful grey heading into night.

Leila put down her palette knife, turned down her radio, and listened. There was quiet, finally quiet, blissful silence.

Now, at the end of the day, Leila had to steel herself for the most infuriating moment of the day: Iris leaving. The torrential thumps of Iris’ flapping Birkenstocks as she gathered up her belongings, slammed the window, searched for her purse, and slammed her door. The old oak boards were punished as as Iris clomped overhead.

The stomp was followed by the slam. Iris was incapable of doing anything quietly. There was some relief in the slam—it meant Iris was no longer overhead. The Red Barn artists never said good night, pretending not to notice each other’s comings and goings. So Leila didn’t expect Iris to poke her head in, or wave when she passed by. However, the daily drama of the swirling clamor that was Iris, like a performer doing a star turn on the stage, made it impossible not to notice her entrances and exits.

Leila walked to the window. The light of an Indian summer day was fading. Sailboats moored in the bay listed drunkenly. Had the final thump earlier signaled Iris’ departure? Leila walked back to her canvas. She recognized this as the same solitary circling as that of her neighbor overhead. It was ironic, but that didn’t stop Iris from being an annoyance.

She put her tools on her workbench. She should rinse them in turpentine and water in the bathroom at the end of the hall—the brushes would be tackier and difficult to clean after drying overnight. Oh well, she’d deal with that in the morning. Grabbing her backpack, she turned out the lights and closed her door. The hallway was silent. The other studio doors on her floor were closed. No Philomena, no Dové.

But something in the quality of the jarring loud noise earlier somehow made the quiet louder.

The stairs were poorly lit, even after Leila switched on the bare bulb dangling overhead. The whole damn place was a fire hazard. She climbed to the second floor. No Liz, no Gretchen. Later, she couldn’t quite explain why hadn’t she gone home.

The crap fixture in the upstairs hall, that never worked right, was out, as usual. The damn, dusty moose head Iris had mounted above her door stared down dolefully through its blind, button eyes. Its antlers wore a fine coat of dust.

Iris’ door was open a crack, which surprised Leila. Iris worked behind closed, locked doors, all day, every day. The other Red Barn artists left their doors open at least a smidgen, not exactly an invitation, but not a deliberately antisocial act. Iris had no such compunctions.

Leila knocked. Silence. She hesitated. Should she leave Iris alone? She took a few steps back toward the stairs, but turned around. What harm was it peeking inside? “Iris, its only me, Leila. ” No answer. “Iris, are you there?”

Leila stared through the crack in the door. At first, she thought the room was empty, but as her eyes adjusted, Leila made out a shape, or maybe a shadow, in the center of the studio.

The value of the only available light source, through the far window, made it difficult to see. Iris refused to use artificial light. She insisted on painting ‘as the Old Masters had’, that is, only by natural light. For a time, she had painted by candlelight, until the Red Barn got wind of it, banning burning candles before Iris burned the place down.

Leila stared at the shape. It didn’t move. Iris never left her door unlocked. Maybe she’d left something behind and would come back for it. Leila pushed the door open further, venturing into the silent studio, under the disapproving gaze of the mildewed moose, inching towards the shadow.

Iris, who incurred the Red Barn artists’ collective ire by deprecating the work of her fellow artists, neglecting to lock the front door, leaving puddles around communal hall sink, and far worse, as the prime suspect in the ongoing war of toilet squatting accusations, that same annoying Iris, was splayed on the floor, eyes wide open, inert as a tube of sepia.

It was a body. Iris’ body. Later, Leila recalled the body like a dead deer, abandoned on the side of the road after an accident. She remembered noting the color of Iris’ skin, like the underpainting of flesh in a neutral shade—what artists called grisaille, or dead coloring.

Ironically, under the circumstances, the scene is not unlike Iris’ own brooding assemblages: the carnage of death, overripe fruit in silver bowls, bird carcasses on platters, and game animals, fresh and bloodied, trophies of the hunt hung in the background, rendered in the style of the Old Masters.

And later, Leila was vaguely ashamed of her observations, her detachment. But, she thought defensively, isn’t observation was a habit developed over a lifetime?

Tentatively, Leila inched forward, reaching out her hand to touch the body. She yanked it back as if it was submerged in a shark tank. Iris was surprisingly warm, alive warm.

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, Leila saw Iris’ blood was a seeping stain from her flowing blue dress onto the floorboards. The red was the red every paint manufacturer had tried, but failed, to capture in a tube. Brilliant, blood red. But the eyes were dead, even if the heart was beating. Leila’s heart dropped a beat. Fear crept up her throat. Leila had to look away; she couldn’t look at those eyes. Should she call out? Is anyone here? But it was better she was alone, even if it was with a dead body. But, Iris wasn’t alone.

A small figure stood—as if on guard—over the body. Leila bent down to look at it: it was a wooden artist’s mannequin, no bigger than a child’s toy, standing guard over Iris. She recognized him immediately.

Jesus, it was Fred, fucking Fred— Leila, in a fanciful mood, had painted the figure to be anatomically correct, as well as well-endowed—who had gone missing from her studio months ago.

But poor Fred, as an eyewitness to a crime, could have nothing to say. There was no doubt he was Fred, and that he belonged to her. Bending down to pick up her missing mannequin, Leila gazed into his dead eyes. What to do?

In truth, she was both embarrassed by her handiwork, and concerned his presence could be construed as evidence at the scene of the crime; she pocketed Fred and in a sleight of hand he disappeared.

Leila didn’t need Fred to paint the picture. Iris prone. The blood. The burnished wood handle of a knife stuck in an ample left breast. Iris had been murdered. Leila didn’t scream. Leila wasn’t a screamer

Enter for your chance to win a Kindle copy of Death in Vermilion!

Giveaway Details:

Copy of Death in Vermilion for Kindle

Rafflecopter Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/0e7c6a8f40/?

About the Author

Barbara Elle grew up in Boston, but as an adult became a New Yorker. Barbara loves writing barbaraelleabout people and places she remembers, so Death In Vermilion is set on Cape Cod, a place of many memories. She continues collecting memories and places, traveling the world with her touring musician husband, whether exploring Buddhist temples in Beijing, crypts in Vienna or Kabuki Theater in Tokyo, in search of new stories to write about. She invariably packs a notebook and her laptop.

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

Twitter: @barbaraelleauth

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#CoverReveal When The Fire Rains Down: A Kingdom Come Novel (Book #3) by Cecelia Earl @authorcecelia @shanannigans81

Today I’ve very excited to bring you the cover reveal for When Fire Rains Down with an exclusive excerpt and a Giveaway, just scrolled down to find out how to enter!

Title: When Fire Rains Down: A Kingdom Come Novel (Book #3)

Author: Cecelia Earl

Release Date: July 27, 2018

Genre: YA/ Paranormal/ Urban Fantasy

Synopsis:

The little town of Shady Creek is under attack by Lucifer and his demons. To save the people she loves, human-angel Hybrid Julia must rescue their kidnapped Guardian Angels, even when it means defying her father.

Trouble is, he knows only too much about Hell’s perils. When a demon sucks Julia into a cosmic vacuum, the experience leaves an indelible blight she dares not mention for fear of losing her place on the angelic rescue team.

As a growing demon army surrounds Shady Creek, Julia’s feelings for her own Guardian become all too real and dangerous. But the cosmic imbalance fueled by Hybrid Angels, Rogue Guardians and Warriors is already depleting the strength of the Rescue Team. And there’s no room for distraction when the mission is to get into Hell—and out again.

For the sake of the mission, Julia must face the truth of the Hybrids’ existence. Because nobody will be safe unless she can trust the gift of free will—for others and for herself—in this end-of-the-world finale to The Legend of Shady Creek Trilogy.

*Stay tuned for another trilogy in the Kingdom Come Series: The Stories of Summersby Corner

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32611801-when-ash-rains-down?ac=1&from_search=true

Pre-Order Links:

(US) https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FGDD42G/

(UK) https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07FGDD42G

(CA) https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07FGDD42G
Paperback will be available July 27th!

Facebook Party!

The author will be hosting a Facebook cover reveal event today (june 25) (https://www.facebook.com/events/612550709103891/) with giveaways, trivia, excerpts and more!

Now here’s the gorgeous cover:

When Fire Rains Down Front Cover

Exclusive excerpt from the book:

“Nicholas can teach you to use the demons’ weapons against them. You may become an expert, the best. Cole and I can get you inside. We can provide detailed descriptions of Hell and instruct you on how to find Tobias and the others, but we were there for months, for years, and we are blessed to miraculously be sitting here before you now.

“There’s a slim chance you’ll get in and an even slimmer chance you’ll get out. Especially with all the Guardians. An attack from the inside out is the only way, but some of the Guardians have been there a long, long time. There’s no telling how beat up they are, and I don’t mean bruised bodies, I mean tortured minds.”

His words are met with a hushed silence.

I expect Nicholas to look defeated, but he rises again, and his voice is as strong as ever. “It will not be easy, and none of us can expect it to be. We’ve all fought demons before, and we know as well as anyone how they can manipulate, deceive, and pervert truths. We know how nearness to them for any short or lengthy period of time can affect the strongest of angels.”

He doesn’t look at Cole when he says this, and Cole doesn’t appear to be offended. I suppose they’re too timeworn and wise to mind obvious truths and overlook what humans might take as a slight.

Dad’s looking at his folded hands, clenching his jaw. I feel bad for him. With what he saw and felt, it’s no wonder he doesn’t want me to go. I want to wrap my arms around him now and put my forehead to his like I did when I was a little girl. I want to remove those memories as much as he wants to save me from experiencing them.

“But in knowing this, I hope we will become stronger, more prepared, more resolute. Even though it is dangerous and will be difficult, knowing what being near Hell does to our Guardians, we have all the more reason to rescue them. I am still all in for this mission. My plan to take a small team in order to get in without detection, accomplish our mission, and get out, stands.

“With so many Guardians in captivity, we cannot simply sneak them out. Our breakout will be catastrophic. It will be an upset. We will go in small, like a whisper, but we will come out shouting in victory.” He pounds on the table. It shakes and the sound echoes throughout the cave. Once it’s quiet, he asks, “Who is with me?”

Stunned, we all sit in silence. But after a moment I realize he is waiting for us, for at least one of us, to respond.

I don’t look at my dad before I rise. “I am with you.”
Other Books in this Trilogy:

When Ash Rains Down (Book #1)

eReader & Paperback Book #1

Shady Creek gets a whole lot scarier after Julia learns she’s part angel, especially since the only person she can trust is an angel who’s as infuriating as he is attractive.

Julia received a necklace containing the songs of the angels from her dad when she was four. When she was eleven, he abandoned her family and the necklace went silent. At seventeen, Julia’s doing everything she can to maintain security for her family, but now her necklace seems to have come to life once again. And that’s not all that’s changing.

When a robber attempts to steal from their diner, the necklace blazes and burns her chest. Pain in her back is nearly unbearable as the thief transforms before her eyes… into something demonic.

Demon after demon threaten Julia’s home, family, and friends, and she realizes there may have been something more behind her dad’s disappearance. And now there may be something–or someone–dangerous after her.

Julia has to accept that she is not quite human. Will her infuriating but attractive Guardian Angel be able to prepare her for the battle to come?

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32611801-when-ash-rains-down?ac=1&from_search=true

When Smoke Rains Down (Book #2)
eReader Paperback Book #2

If only humans knew the invisible danger lurking around them…

In the aftermath of an explosion and Homecoming battle, Julia tries to form some semblance of a routine: work, study, and visit her brother who remains hospitalized. Unable to confide in anyone about her double life of being both human and angel, and fearful she’ll bring more death and destruction to those she loves, she pulls away from her family and best friend.

When demons once again start to show up at every turn, seemingly bringing about her brother’s deepening depression, she demands her sword from Nicholas. Ever the stern Guardian Angel, he forbids her from using it. Isolated, she takes protecting her brother into her own hands. But when demons show they have evils hidden within their weapons in addition to their ability to siphon souls from the living, Julia’s not sure she knows the best way to handle saving him any longer. Especially when ash-colored lines begin to appear on humans, lines of demonic poison that travel through their veins toward their hearts and alter their moods.

Thrust into a dark world of conspiring demons, Julia is in more danger than she ever imagined possible. To stop evil from spreading and overtaking those she loves, she’ll have to seek out the one person she mistrusts most–especially when a line appears on her own arm, and her apathy toward doing much of anything, including saving anyone, grows.

Enter a complex world where humans, demons, and angels collide, all battling to rule the Earth.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34902957-when-smoke-rains-down?ac=1&from_search=tru
About the Author:

Cecelia Earl graduated with a degree in education and has been teaching ever since. She’s a wife, a mom of three boys, and an owner of a magical laundry pile that never stops growing. Author Pic (2)She lives near enough to Green Bay, WI that her refrigerator is always stocked with cheese, and the first colors her children learned were green and gold.

She’s a first grade teacher in a Catholic school by day, a mom always, and a writer in her sleep, but that’s okay because being an author is a dream come true. She writes angel fantasy books for young and youngish adults. If you feel young, she writes for you—whether or not you feel particularly angelic.

Author Links:

Website: http://ceceliaearl.com

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cdvvIj

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15972302.Cecelia_Earl

Twitter:https://twitter.com/authorcecelia

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

Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/authorcecelia/

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/authorcecelia
eReader Phone Paperback When Fire Rains Down #3

Giveaway!

Win a SIGNED paperback copy of book #1 When Ash Rains Down, including the bonus story Before the Ashes!

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#BlogTour The Phoenix Cycle: The Best Shall Rise by Bob Collopy. @BobCollopy @shanannigans81 #Excerpt #Giveaway #BookPromo

Book Cover

Title: The Phoenix Cycle: The Best Shall Rise by Bob Collopy

Publication Date: 23rd June 2017

Published By: The Department of Smoke

Genre: Dystopian/ YA/ Sci-Fi

Description:

New San Francisco is the last city standing on a world ravaged by storms of ash and debris. The city survived by putting the ideals of the American dream on steroids and inspiring its people to persevere, though they have become ruthless in the process. Its citizens are ruled by the General, who has made sure that his people understand that gentleness and pity have become weaknesses that nature no longer tolerates.

Now Steve and Leslie must choose whether they will apply for the General’s once in a lifetime opportunity to “Rise from the Ashes” and join the Inner Circle that rules the city. If they don’t, they will be damned to spend the rest of their lives in the ghettos of Edinburg, a place where virtual reality has become a government-subsidized addiction.

For Steve, the choice is easy. His loyalties lie with the IRA, a revolutionary army led by a voice only known as “Mom.” They are trying to overthrow the General and free the people of New San Francisco from the cruelties of the City Guard. Steve’s mission is to broadcast a recording of a speech that a famous philosopher died to tell. Many thousands have and will perish to get this message out, but is anyone willing to listen?

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35148208-the-phoenix-cycle?ac=1&from_search=true

Excerpt

Every wrist in the stadium beeped. Every boy and girl glanced down at the face of their watch. “00:10” then “:09” then “:08.” Everyone turned their heads to the west. There it was. Right on time, as always. The nightly storm. A wall of blackness had lurched up into the sky, swallowing the setting sun. The hairs on Steve’s neck stood up, urging him to get the hell out of there.

Instead he grabbed Leslie’s hand, who sat quietly quivering next to him, instinctively pressing her bow into her head for comfort. Steve knew her shaking wasn’t coming from Line’s yelling, the storm, or even the tank pointing at them. Her quivers never came from the barrel of a gun, no, the ragging agony she held within her was the very same thing that pushed him back into the sheets when the sun finally rose—are we going to lose each other?

Leslie’s mind pushed the feeling away for at least another moment. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered. Her brown eyes guided him to the dozens of mortar tubes pointing upward and outward on the vibrant green field and then to the perfect line of churning ash that approached the stands.

Unity can only be achieved and be maintained when it is the STRONG who come together and fly under one flag! We, like no other in the world, have created a unity that has never broken, has never FLINCHED! When the rest of the world saw THAT—” Line’s long arm pointed at the coming avalanche of black— “They all fell to pieces!”

The earth began to quake as the wall rose over them. Someone screamed. The mortars on the field fired as one at the roiling sky. The blackness spilled over the stadium, then slid over the perimeter of the frizzing wall of static that had encapsulated the field. No Phoenix Cycler had seen—only heard rumors from past Cycle Pref parties—this blackness that was sliding over and them whispering their deaths.

– The Phoenix Cycle: The Best Shall Rise

Link to Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/JVm1R6nUVjE (Please include trailer in your post)

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Purchase Link:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Phoenix-Cycle-Best-Shall-Rise-ebook/dp/B071DSM3VT
About the Author:

Bob is pretty dope. Firstly, his name is Bob, so…yea. Second, have you seen him rock that suitAuthor Pic while in a maximum security prison? Epic.

Yea. That’s Bob. No psychological scarring with that author. Nope. Totally fine.

Gosh he looks good in suits.

Hey Have you read The Phoenix Cycle? He wrote that.

One suggestion before you read it and become one of those fans that leaves him roses by his doormat. Read her slowly. This book is not Twilight. She’s deeper than that. Take your time with her. Show the book you care. Cradle it and make it feel loved. If you do, she’ll be good to you. Go too fast and you’ll have no idea why she’s acting so crazy.

Website: http://www.philosophiesdead.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bob.collopy.75

Twitter: https://twitter.com/bobcollopy

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4198544.Bob_Collopy

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCtmeA77INaD43DMYdLcKZ8w
Giveaway!!!

The author is giving away 10 print copies (That’s right 10) and 5 Digital copies of his book so make sure you enter as the odds are definitely in you favor! (Giveaway will run from May 21st to May 30th)

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Blog Tour Schedule:

May 21st

Reads & Reels (Kick-Off Promo) http://ww.readsandreels.com

Just for My Books (Excerpt) http://www.just4mybooks.wordpress.com

The Lit Cottage (Review) http://shellybajwa.wordpress.com/

Adventures Thu Wonderland (Review) http://adventuresthruwonderland.blogspot.com/

The Midwest Ladies Who Lit (Excerpt) http://mwladieswholit.wordpress.com/

May 22nd

IAMAGEEKINGGINGER (Review) http://iamageekingginger.wordpress.com

Tranquil Dreams (Review) http://klling.wordpress.com

On the Shelf Reviews (Excerpt) https://ontheshelfreviews.wordpress.com

May 23rd

Didi Oviatt (Excerpt) https://didioviatt.wordpress.com

The Genre Minx (Excerpt) http://www.thegenreminx.com/

The Cozy Pages (Excerpt) http://thecozypages.wordpress.com/

Valerie’s Musings (Excerpt) http://valeriesmusings76.wordpress.com

The YA Book Divas (Interview) http://www.yabookdivas.com/

May 24th

J Bronder Reviews (Review) https://jbronderbookreviews.com/

Banshee Irish Horror Blog (Interview) http://bansheeirishhorrorblog.com/

Bri’s Book Nook (Review) http://brisbooknook.wordpress.com

The Cozy Pages (Excerpt) http://thecozypages.wordpress.com/

Wicked Good Reads (Review) http://www.wickedgoodreads.com

May 25th

Afire Pages (Excerpt) http://www.afirepages.wordpress.com

Port Jerricho (Excerpt) http://www.aislynndmerricksson.com

Touch My Spine Book Reviews (Review) https://touchmyspinebookreviews.com

Life at 17 (Review) https://lifeat17.wordpress.com

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#Review with #Excerpt Hiding by Jenny Morton Potts @jmortonpotts

Title: Hiding by Jenny Morton Potts

Date Published: 1st February 2018

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Description:

Keller Baye and Rebecca Brown live on different sides of the Atlantic. Until she falls in love with him, Rebecca knows nothing of Keller. But he’s known about her for a very long time, and now he wants to destroy her.

This is the story of two families. One living under the threat of execution in North Carolina. The other caught up in a dark mystery in the Scottish Highlands. The families’ paths are destined to cross. But why? And can anything save them when that happens?

(Jenny Morton Potts takes to the psychological thriller stage on an international canvass, and with a unique, bold voice.)

Add it on Goodreads here:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37561296-hiding

hiding cover

Review:

I want to thank Jenny Morton Potts for sending me a copy of her book in exchange for an honest review.

Rebecca Brown is an orphan. She is sent to the highlands of Scotland to live with her grandparents and brother and sister after their parents die in a car crash. Keller Baye is in a similar position in North Carolina, having been left with his horrible Aunt Joya after his dad is involved in a failed bank robbery and is on death row.

Keller becomes obsessed with finding Rebecca Brown but why?

The story is told from the viewpoints of Rebecca and Keller. We follow their story from 2007, when Keller is a teenager and Rebecca is ten years old, to 2021 when they finally meet. There’s a lot of mystery, the story really keeps you guessing until the full story is revealed near the end of the book.

The backstories both characters are well crafted and believable, I was very impressed and I feel a lot of research went into the characters to make them authentic.

Keller is a very complicated character. I had a lot of sympathy for him, most of what happened to him was not his fault but as the story goes on he becomes a bit of a monster. I loved Rebecca as a child, she so inquisitive and imaginative, I would have liked her as a friend when I was ten years old.

I felt that the story could have done with a little more fine tuning, there was a little bit of repetition. Also if the author hadn’t said it was set in 2007 or 2021, I wouldn’t have really known. I felt that it could have been set in the 80’s or 90’s or even now without detracting from the story.

Overall a really character driven story with a compelling storyline.

Rating: 4/5

Excerpt from Chapter 2 – Death Row

When they arrived at Turville, there were many cars in the lot. You might have thought you were attending a concert. There was no landscaping, nothing to soften the bricks of this death house which had been painted grey some time ago and had begun to flake. The Harfieldlogo hung on a large metal plaque. It too was faded and chipped.

Without a word of leave, the escorting officers walked away from the passengers and new staff took over. The minibus occupants were told that their belongings would be locked in the van until post-procedure. They were asked if they would like to take quarters into the building as there was a vending machine with snacks and drinks.

Then another officer, a woman, just young, set about asking them security questions and issuing tags on neck bands. ‘You have to sign your name in a ledger. That’s first.’ She made herding movements with her arms and the group passed through a body sensor and then there was a cursory pat down. The officer held her thumb and forefinger up, like a diver’s affirmative. Good to go.

Keller noted that indeed the older man he had marked out as a journalist, was permitted to take a notepad in with him. The redhead girl was also permitted writing material. Their pens were tested in a small scanning machine and he overheard the girl saying that she was preparing her doctoral thesis.

Nice subject for a PhD,’ Keller muttered beneath his breath. ‘Classy.’

Somehow, he thought there would be a long walk now, time for contemplation but almost straight away the group were led into a small waiting room. The walls were solid, there was no viewing window. This was not the place then. But there was a vending machine. Keller could see fresh apples in the bottom row.

The redhead sat opposite Keller. He wondered if she would like the look of him. Women usually did, at first. It wasn’t really the time or the place but a woman like her was hardly one for etiquette. She looked at her watch and said to the student wearing the plaster cast that she could barely cope without her cell. She then realised that there was some sort of joke to be made of the pun on ‘cell’ and actually laughed. Keller had a sudden vision of being in a lifeboat, sitting next to her, and pushing her over the side. She scribbled away in her big A4 pad, a ring with a diamond on her wedding finger. She was engaged then, and no doubt believed that she had everything to live for. The death penalty has a way of driving home a point like that. The girl sighed, like she had done a hard day’s work. As if taunting him, she let the pad rest upside down on her lap, so that he could make out the words. She had big, babyish writing. Not like the American cursive they were taught. She had a bit of an accent too. Probably went to one of those expensive schools in Europe. Keller looked down at her notes.

2002Uzbekistan authorities boiled men to death in water… China have mobile death units, small buses with in-house execution equipment which travel to far lying provinces….Neighboring South Carolina executed a 14 year old in the electric chair…

Keller stared hard at the redhead. What a charming companion for the day. Fleetingly, he wondered if he should follow her home tonight and get in a bit of target practice. He could get himself match ready and make the world a better place without this member of the population. He dug his knuckles into his thigh and told himself to stop getting distracted.

Keller knew that there would be no stay, and no clemency. He knew that the procedure would begin at 12 noon prompt. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the cool plaster of the wall behind the bench. Without vision, the thrum of the AC filled his ears fully and he shut out the hushed voices and fell asleep, as he had done in moments of stress as a child. He had Aunt Joya to thank for that technique. Every time she locked him out of the house, he’d nap, no matter what the temperature. If he were to have died of cold before waking, that wouldn’t have been much of a tragedy. There was a point in the coldness when you stopped noticing and the sleep just washed gently over you. He trained that sleep to come to him when he needed it, like a faithful dog.

When Keller was woken in the Turville waiting room, his legs had loosened and sprawled out before him. ‘It is time,’ someone seemed to have said in his ear. As the day’s reality cleaved through his head afresh, the redhead opposite had the nerve to offer him a look of disapproval. She picked her way through his sleepy limbs and walked out of the door, sober and straight-faced.

There was a walk now. They passed doors, like random choices. They all looked the same, all the colour of pale nicotine. But some of those doors were in the business of living and some were not. As you walked past them, you could feel hope slipping away. Which door? Which one? It was like a game the devil might play as you entered hell. Eventually the passengers reached the end of their journey and were shown into another room which was similar in size to the last but with what looked like a window on one side. The window was dark for the moment, with a black blind pulled down and opposite, there was a gallery with seating. The seating was slightly raked, like a theatre. They were here for a performance.

You can buy Hiding now, just click the links below:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hiding-gripping-psychological-thriller-chilling-ebook/dp/B078XK95S1/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1517577093&sr=8-1

https://www.amazon.com/Hiding-gripping-psychological-thriller-chilling/dp/1976862817/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8

Author Bio:

Jenny is a novelist, screenplay writer and playwright. After a series of ‘proper jobs’, she realised20171013_173233 she was living someone else’s life and escaped to Gascony to make gîtes. Knee deep in cement and pregnant, Jenny was happy. Then autism and a distracted spine surgeon wiped out the order. Returned to wonderful England, to write her socks off. Jenny would like to see the Northern Lights but worries that’s the best bit and should be saved till last. Very happily, and gratefully, settled with family.
She tries not to take herself too seriously.

Author Links:

www.jennymortonpotts.com

https://www.facebook.com/jennymortonpotts

@jmortonpotts

#BlogTour My Sweet Friend by Helene Leuschel #Excerpt @shanannigans81 @HALeuschel

Title: My Sweet Friend by Helene Leuschel

Publication Date:December 6, 2017

Genre:Contemporary Fiction/ Women’s Fiction

A Note from the Author:

Lying is a symptom shared by the most convincing, cunning and ruthless individuals such as psychopaths and narcissistic manipulators. They have an invincible sense of self-importance and an addictive urge to project an image of power and perfection at all cost which are fuelled by the rewarding tools of charm, diversion and … clever deception.

Like anything in life, whether the skill is morally laudable or not, skills require training, effort and hard work. The danger lies in the brain progressively adapting to the dishonest behaviour and the longer the lies, the harder it would seem to be able to change the conditioning of one’s sensitivity to telling the truth. The truth and nothing but the truth or at the very least the intention to do so most of the time therefore appears to be a basic requirement for any interpersonal trust.

In my new stand-alone novella, I explore the idea that when crossing the line between truth or lie too often, it becomes a curse the person is eventually unable to shed …

Synopsis:

A stand-alone novella from the author of Manipulated Lives

A perfect friend … or a perfect impostor?

Alexa is an energetic and charismatic professional and the new member of a Parisian PR company where she quickly befriends her colleagues Rosie and Jack. She brings a much-needed breath of fresh air into the office and ambitiously throws herself into her new job and friendships.

But is Alexa all she claims to be?

As her life intertwines with Rosie and Jack’s, they must all decide what separates truth from fiction. Will the stories that unfold unite or divide them? Can first impressions ever be trusted?

In this original novella, H.A. Leuschel evokes the powerful hold of appearances and what a person is prepared to do to keep up the facade. If you like thought-provoking and compelling reads with intriguing characters, My Sweet Friend is for you.

MSF High Res Cover
Excerpt:

I was brushing my teeth the next morning when Alexa called, crying over another nasty phone call from her ex. I was running late as it was but was unable to stop her barrage of insults against a man I didn’t even know the name of.

He’s driving me absolutely insane. I’ve really had enough,’ I heard her shout, the heels of her shoes clicking on the pavement. She was clearly on her way to work while I was only slipping my feet into my shoes. It had been her second frantic call that morning.

Listen. Alexa, calm down. I understand you’re upset but I’ll be late if you don’t stop.’

I’m there for you when you need me but when I’m the one in need for once, you fob me off. Great, really nice, thanks.’ She hung up, leaving me in an angry sweat. I was her polar opposite – organized and calm – but lately I felt out of kilter myself. I’d missed out on seeing my mum because, for one reason or another, Alexa managed to ambush my attention.

When I eventually rushed through the office door, Alexa was looking up at me indifferently, in deep conversation with Jack, who tapped his watch with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. I lowered my eyes, my stomach heaving with repressed fury. Alexa had crawled under my skin yet I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why and how it had all come about.

I hid in the ladies’ toilets, panic rising to my throat, and utterly lost for words. I realised that if it had been Alexa running off, I’d have made sure I was giving her moral support, coaxing her back to work. Where was she now that I needed her? Was I getting hysterical, losing the plot?

Goodreads Link:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36678713-my-sweet-friend?ac=1&from_search=true

Purchase My Sweet Friend Here:https://books2read.com/u/4AwM6d

Giveaway:

Enter for your chance to win a digital copy (Format of Choice) of My Sweet Friend

Link:http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/0e7c6a8f28/?



About the Author:

Helene Andrea Leuschel grew up in Belgium where she gained a Licentiate in Journalism & Photo - Helene editedCommunication, which led to a career in radio and television in Brussels, London and Edinburgh. She now lives with her husband and two children in Portugal and recently acquired a Master of Philosophy with the OU, deepening her passion for the study of the mind. When she is not writing, Helene works as a freelance journalist and teaches yoga.

Author Links:

https://www.facebook.com/HALeuschel

https://twitter.com/HALeuschel

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15337013.H_A_Leuschel

http://www.heleneleuschel.com

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