Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Haunted Halloween Spooktacular Tour for Planet of the Dead by Thomas S. Flowers


Planet of the Dead
Book One
Thomas S. Flowers

Genre: Horror

Publisher: Shadow Work Publishing

Date of Publication: Oct 13, 2017

ISBN: 1988819024
ASIN: B075X2WLX1

Number of pages: 268 (Kindle), 266 (paperback)
Word Count: 60K

Cover Artist: Travis Eck

Tagline: Live. Die. Or become one of the Undead.

Book Description:

News reports speak of mass panic and violence spreading across the globe. Negligent leaders hide behind misinformation. But in an age of paranoia and suspicion, who can say what is true anymore? Struggling to survive against a sweeping epidemic that has engulfed the planet, survivors will have to make hard choices in a world that no longer makes sense.



Excerpt:
Seoul,
South Korea.
There it is
again. Scratching in the walls. Harold sat up in the queen bed he shared with
Silvio, his grey-haired miniature Schnauzer. He stared out into the darkness of
his room, turning his head to the wall. What was that sound? Scratching…was it
rats? Now it sounded like it was above him, that nails against wood kind of
sound. But that didn’t make sense. He lived on the first floor of a two-story
apartment building in one of the quieter neighborhoods in the Yongsan-gu area.
Nothing ever happened here. While in the past, he’d had his share of crappy
neighbors, Mrs. Kim was farthest from what one would consider to be a rowdy
neighbor. Kim was a sweet little old lady with poorly dyed hair that gave her thinning
white a touch of blue. She wore large red framed glasses and never made much of
a sound, even during the day. The only complaint he would have would be the
smell of kimchee that permeated through the walls whenever she cooked the awful
stuff.
Still, the
scratching persisted.
Silvio
whimpered, turning his head upward at the sound, and then burying himself under
the comforter.
Harold looked to
his quivering dog and back to the ceiling. Now there was something else. Was
that…moaning? Christ, what if Mrs. Kim fell and hurt herself. She could be
dying up there. I should probably call someone, emergency services…anyone. But
would they get here in time to help her? What if she’s really hurt? I need to
do something.
He flung off his
warm blanket and hopped out of bed. Harold slid on his slippers and went for
the door. The hallway outside was empty, not very surprising considering most
of the residents here at Yongsan-gu were nearing or past retirement. The very
reason why he wanted to rent here was the quiet; nothing out of the ordinary
ever happened here. A sudden cold breeze tickled his neck and arms. Pulling his
robe closer to his chest, his skin breaking out in goosebumps, he quickly
shuffled to the stairs.
Hoping Silvio
would be okay on his own, Harold climbed the short steps to the second floor.
Silvio will be
okay, he promised himself.
It’ll only be
for a few minutes.
Mrs. Kim’s
apartment was at the end, just above his own. Passing the door before hers he
thought he’d heard the tenants arguing inside.
Odd, he thought,
tempted to press his ear against their door.
In all the years that Harold had lived here, he had never once heard or
seen Fred and Marcy fight. Not once. They were the picture perfect boring
couple, and the only other Americans living in the complex. Teachers, at some
private school. Not that Harold would know much about that; he taught at the
public institution, and had so for years now. As the saying goes, he was a
professional bachelor and had little to nothing keeping him from wanting to
return to the States. And besides, he liked it here. The culture, the food, the
purposefulness, and the discipline of the students were far advanced from what
he’d dealt with back in Kentucky. 
Harold took a
step and stopped, thought better of it, and continued to Mrs. Kim’s.
He knocked on
the red door.
“Mrs. Kim, you
in there?”
No answer.
“Is everything
okay? I thought I heard— “
The door to Fred
and Marcy’s apartment flung open.
Harold jumped
back, pulling tighter on his robes.
Someone ran out.
A blur. Down the hallway to the stairs. Turning back, he stared at Harold.
“Fred? What’s
going on?”
Fred, who was
normally tan with tidily kept clothes, looked disheveled and ghostly. He’d
obviously been sweating, his hair ruffled and sticking up in areas. And on his
clothes, there were red stains, dark red, covering most of his untucked shirt
and pant legs. On his neck, an aggravated wound, crimson and purplish, oozing
down and soaking into his collar.
“Fred, are you
okay? Are you hurt?” Harold took a step forward.
Wide eyed, Fred
turned and darted down the steps.
Harold watched,
silent and unmoving.
He eyed the open
door to their apartment.
No sounds came
from within.
He glanced at
Mrs. Kim’s door and then back to Fred and Marcy’s.
Swallowing hard,
he moved toward the open door. With his slipper foot, he slowly nudged it open.
The door creaked and stopped. No lights inside, just a dim glow coming from a
lamp in the living room. Chairs were turned over, dishes smashed and broken on
the floor in the kitchen.
“Hello?” he
called. “Marcy? It’s me, Harold, from downstairs.”
Nothing.
“I don’t mean to
intrude, but I saw Fred. He looks hurt. Is everything okay?” Harold stopped
short of coming into the kitchen completely. He saw legs and feet sticking out
around the corner, lifeless on the floor.
Harold gasped,
covering his mouth with his cold trembling hand.
“Oh no,” he
whispered.
He moved to the
body. Marcy lay face down on the kitchen tile. Blood pooled underneath,
staining her yellow polka dot dress, wet in a gamey orange.
“Marcy?” Harold
called out. He bent down and reached to check for a pulse.
He jerked back.
Marcy stirred.
“Oh, God, you
startled me. Marcy, are you alright?” Harold shuddered, his breath coming too
fast, heart pounding against his chest.
Strangely, in odd
twitching movements, Marcy got to her knees and turned.
“Oh no,
Marcy…what…what happened? How can— “Harold wanted to scream, his breath and his
heart pumping too hard to allow him.  She
ground chunks of pink flesh between red stained teeth… Fred’s flesh, he was
sure.
Marcy groaned
and lunged for him.
Harold moved
back just in time.! He watched as Marcy fell face first onto the kitchen tile,
inching away as she began moving again, crawling, reaching out with reddened
fingers, clawing at his slippered feet.
“Marcy, what’s
happened? What’s going?” he begged, again taking another step back out into the
living room, back towards the open apartment door.
Marcy groaned,
annoyed and hungry, still in pursuit, still crawling.
Unable to watch
anymore, wanting nothing more than to run back downstairs to his own apartment,
to lock and deadbolt the door, to hug close Silvio, his miniature Schnauzer,
wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else, somewhere not here with this
bloodied crazed woman who was no longer the Marcy he thought he knew.
She’s drunk…
Or on drugs, has
to be.
She’s not
herself.
Harold turned
and started for the open door.
He yelped.
Mrs. Kim stood
in the entryway. Her bluish white hair ruffled and torn. Red swollen teeth-like
wounds on her arms. And her eyes, a creamy yellow white, but not a sunny
yellow, rather much more like decay that reminded him of rotting things eking
some measure of existence at the bottom of dumpsters. She shuffled toward him,
quickly grabbing on his robe and pulling herself to him.
Harold slapped
at her. Hard.
But her hold was
strong, manically strong.
“Stop, Mrs. Kim,
please— “
She angled down
and bit his exposed wrist. Blood pooled around her lips as she gnawed and
suckled, grunting with a sort of pleasurable ecstasy.
Harold screamed
and fought to dislodge her, but he could not remove her bite.
Nails scraped
his shins.
He glared down.
Marcy was
clawing at his legs, nipping at his flesh.
He kicked away,
but she held fast. With a quick sneer, she bit into his calf.
Harold shrieked,
toppling over the couch. He rolled and hit the floor on the other side hard,
knocking his head against the coffee table. Dazed, he lay there, unsure if what
was happening was even real. Maybe he was still in his own apartment, fast
asleep with Silvio by his side.
Shuffling over,
moaning deeply, Mrs. Kim reappeared, her lips wet and scarlet, dribbling down
onto her white ruffle blouse.
He watched,
frozen, his body refusing to move.
“Please…stop…don’t—
“he begged.
Another moaning,
gurgling above him.
Harold angled
and watched as Marcy crawled towards him from the other side of the couch. As
if driven by the smell of his wounds, she quickened her pace, scrapping along
the floor. Reaching his face, she thrust her sneering teeth clamping down on
his cheek, ripping, shredding loose flesh and tissue and fat, pulling back to
enjoy the chunky red and purplish glob.
Harold squirmed
and squealed.
He stared in
horror as Mrs. Kim kneeled beside him, reaching with greedy claws for his now
exposed belly. She tore into his flesh, bleeding him, reaching, wiggling her
fingers deep inside.
Harold lost his
voice, whimpering and gnashing his gums as he watched in disbelief, watched as
Mrs. Kim ripped out a rubbery looking hose like noddle what he could only
assume to be part of his intestines. Dripping wet, she suckled and chewed
hastily and dug some more.
What about
Silvio, he wondered, shuddering at the molten touch of Mrs. Kim digging farther
into him, pulling out more of his stomach, licking, eating him alive.


My dog, what’ll
happen to my Silvio…


About the Author:



Who doesn't love a good story? Thomas's favorite books include All Quiet on the Western Front, Salem's Lot, and Hell House.

In his own writings, he aspires to create fantastic worlds with memorable characters and haunted places. His stories range from Shakespearean gore, classic monster tales, and even stories that hurt him the most to write about, haunted soldiers and PTSD. Residing in the swamps of Houston, Texas, with his wife and daughter, Thomas's debut novel, Reinheit, was eventually published with Shadow Work Publishing, along with Lanmò, The Hobbsburg Horror, FEAST, Beautiful Ugly, and Planet of the Dead.

His veteran focused paranormal thriller series, The Subdue Series, filled with werewolves, Frankenstein-inspired monsters, cults, alter-dimensional insects, witches, and the undead are published with Limitless Publishing.

In 2008, Thomas was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army where he served three tours in Operation Iraqi Freedom. In 2014, Thomas graduated from University of Houston-Clear Lake with a Bachelors in History. He is the senior editor at Machine Mean, a site that reviews horribly awesome and vintage horror movies and books from guest contributors who obsess over a wide range of strange yet oddly related topics.






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Haunted Halloween Spooktacular Tour for The Sting of Victory by S D Simper



A requiem for the fallen gently lulled through the
quaint cottage. Vornalla sang a spell to the backdrop of the setting sun,
watching it cast her workspace in shades of orange and red. 
Lilies white and
lilies red
Scattered with
the bones
Dyed in the
blood of guilty men
To reunite our
souls.
And so fell the crushed petals in respective hues,
casting an elegant aura upon the macabre pile of bones within the cauldron. The
scent of floral death wafted, the ruined lilies pungent in their sweetness.
But with the sight and smell came memories of joyous
times – of a wedding beneath a moonlit night, her own bouquet one of red and
white roses, her lover’s lips and skin the same. Roses were for love; now,
lilies were for death.
Tonight, they would be for a beginning. The veil
between the worlds was thin, on this night of All Hallow’s Eve. Restless ghosts
would sing and wail, the undead would dance, and Vornalla would harness her
chance for happiness anew.
To the village, then, to find the blood she sought.
Vornalla lived in a picturesque forest, protected by
wards of her own magical making. An enchanting sight by day, visited by mischievous
sprites and fairies who would bind your soul to their bidding or cut out your
tongue for perceived slights. At night, mist settled and swirled, caressing
Vornalla’s figure as she stepped fearlessly into the darkness. The last
vestiges of sunlight flickered and died, but in the far distance, well past the
line of trees, evidence of celebration spoke of her quarry.
Leave crumpled beneath her boots. Animal interlopers
fled from her presence. Memories welled in her head, those of happier times
before her life turned to ash. Vornalla had never been gentle or kind, but her
love, her Nira, had taught her to see beauty in all things.
She broke through the line of trees, and with a wave
of her hand a mask of silk and feathers covered her features. She’d look like
the rest of them – those who foolishly thought something as trivial as a mask
would protect them from the spirits and demons beyond.
Revelry grew by cacophonous degrees. Vornalla found
a road, passed by scattered houses that increased in number as she walked. The
few villagers she saw paid her no mind – Vornalla, in her dusty gown and booted
feet, would be a sight on most other nights, but here was nothing and no one.
However, to one unfortunate soul, she would be
vengeance itself.
As she neared the village center, a bonfire blazed,
casting warmth into the chill night. Music played and people danced, some in
sync and others too drunk to know the difference. Children ran about, oblivious
to the interloper in their presence as they laughed and played. Most wore
masks, some carved from wood and others of embossed leather, some with the
visages of animals and insects, of demons and ghosts.
Delicious smells met Vornalla’s senses – roasted,
savory meats, pastries, and more.
She could spare a moment for comfort. Vornalla said
nothing to the baker with his display of cakes, but offered a coin and took her
quarry – pumpkin cake with sprinkled sugar as a glaze.
Vornalla had met Nira here, not three years prior,
having dared descend from her home in the woods on All Hallow’s Eve. A spell
gone wrong had pushed her to find fresh sage—
Instead, as she had inspected the partiers and their
wares, she had been offered cake by a girl in white with a mask of red and
gold.
Vornalla found an empty bench before the bonfire,
her flickering silhouette cast into the dark beyond as she sampled her chosen
pastry. It tasted of her Nira’s lips, of the kisses they’d stolen throughout
the night, hidden in shadow – safer among demons than Nira’s own kin.
When she’d finished her cake, she wiped her sticky
hands upon her dress. The fire raged and burned – a comfort to some. Not to she
and her ilk, however; witches were so often burned alive.
That had not been Nira’s fate, for she was no witch.
She had been branded as something far worse.
Though she could willingly entertain fantasies for
hours, Vornalla’s quest awaited. She picked herself up and continued weaving
through the revelers. Dancers twirled their ribbons, children squealed with
delight at the joyous music, and Vornalla sought her prey.
A familiar face appeared among the villagers, though
not the one she searched for. He wore no mask – merely clapped along with the
music as he watched his young children skip along. She knew his features, his
jawline strong beneath his beard, but his eyes held the softness of the stars
above, glimmering in the moonlight – much like his sister before him.
Nira had two brothers – and here stood one half of
the pair. Concealing her face with her tussled hair and mask, a simple spell
disguised Vornalla’s voice. “Pardon, sir,” she said, and when he looked at her,
she knew he saw only a blotted-out face, a mask with no features beneath it. “I
seek Erin Liteforge. You bear his countenance.”
Something sweet lay coaxed into the phrase, at
Vornalla’s behest. To twist enticing words was simple witchcraft, and the man’s
befuddled expression meant success. “He works the forge tonight.”
Perfect.
“But he will emerge soon-”
“Thank you,” she cooed. A graceful finger landed on
his lip; he made no move to stop it. “And forget.”
He stared dumbstruck, visibly growing sallow as
Vornalla stepped away. The man would be fine. Vornalla had no quarrel with him.
Nira Liteforge had come from a family of
blacksmiths, the only in town. Proficient in their trade, they sold their wares
in the village, yes, but also in the cities beyond, promising a comfortable
life for their family. Nira’s father had promised a substantial dowry to any
suitor he deemed worthy of his only daughter.
But Vornalla had held neither desire nor incentive
to ask for the hand of the woman she loved. Instead, she had romanced Nira in
secret, meeting in the woods at night, the only evidence of their clandestine
trysts sleepless nights and bruised lips, and later at Vornalla’s cottage to
express what innocent kisses could not, to be one and to proclaim it,
breathless and free. They had pledged their love on a moonlit night with naught
but wedding gowns and flowers in the shades of innocence and love.
Their love had been sacred, the only bit of purity
in Vornalla’s twisted life. Nira had loved her nonetheless.
The bonfire’s light was naught but a memory when
Vornalla found the cursed building, the home in which Nira had been born and
raised. Here Nira had come alone, that final night, to collect what was hers before
they ran away.
Vornalla ignored the house itself, instead drawn by
the sound of ringing metal from beyond. She stepped off the worn dirt road and
into the grass, making no attempt to hide her steps.
Smoke filled her nostrils; she saw the fire of the
forge and the silhouette it cast. Erin Liteforged worked his trade, unable to
join the festivities until it was complete.
A pity, for it never would be.
Vornalla came as close as she dared, fire rising in
her blood. The last time she had seen that face, illuminated by flame,
blackened by his labor, it had been splattered with precious blood. His hands,
covered in soot and years of burns, cracked and hardened by metal, had caved in
the skull of his sister, had broken her body beyond repair. A crime of passion,
for the dishonor she had wrought, sanctified by the so-called gods they
worshipped – Vornalla had found them too late.
“Spirits, I
beckon you.”
She
recited the words inside her head, and shadows began to rise. Erin looked up,
meeting her gaze with fear and then fury. “Lend
me your aid.”
Erin’s cry echoed through the quiet night. “You!” he
screamed and threw the hammer he wielded. It would have slain her—
Except she held out her hand, and the spirits
responded. It hung, suspended in the air, then whisked away at her decree. With
nothing to hide, she spoke. “Let my
revenge be manifest.”
The shadows darkened and then grew light. Ghastly
figures burst from the earth, their ghostly wails filling the air. “Let his death be testament of my wrath. His
body is yours.”
Erin ran for Vornalla and his exit, but the ghosts
rose between them, scratching furiously with corporeal claws, gnashing their
terrible teeth. On no night but tonight was their power so strong – idle
specters, now a tool for her to wield.
They fell upon him, his screams matching their
howling. Though translucent, their mass was so great that he all but
disappeared.
Vornalla realized her error. “But his blood is mine!”
The spirits continued their feast. Vornalla withdrew
a knife from her boot and ran to them. With haste, she sliced the blade across
her palm, rivulets of red welling from the split skin, and held it above the
mass of ghosts.
At the first drop of blood, they vanished. Nothing
stirred. In the silence of night, Vornalla heard distant villagers and music
oblivious to the carnage before her. Lying here was the remains of a man,
bitten and torn, shredded and burned by ghostly claws. As she wrapped her hand
with a torn strip of her dress, she realized how quickly he was bleeding out –
Vornalla knew time was short.
She prepared a plea to the demons below, willing to
offer her soul if they sought it, but then spotted a much more practical
application of transport.
Within minutes, Vornalla left the cursed house, her
quarry crumpled in a wheelbarrow, one that conveniently preserved his blood in
a sickly pool. Back through the revelry, the festivities grew more raucous as
villagers drowned themselves in ale, and all they could see was a wheelbarrow
full of sunflowers and the masked woman who peddled them.
Soon, the dark forest enveloped her. The mist had
settled in its entirety. Vornalla saw, out of the corner of her eye, flickers
of light, movements from beyond the veil. Spirits roamed freely on this night,
and Vornalla wondered if one was Nira herself, lost and lonely.
Vornalla’s heart palpitated, her pace ever
increasing. All she had worked for rested in this final hope. Once, her
existence had been an idle routine. Nira had burst into her life like the sun
over a shadowed valley, radiating joy in a rainbow of colors – and when her
light had extinguished, Vornalla was left blinded.
She reached her cottage. Comfortable and small, she
had dreamt of it filled with laughter and love, of waking in the arms of her
beloved each morning. Now it was as cold as the bones in her cauldron.
With the moon high in the sky, Vornalla stopped the
wheelbarrow in the aside room she reserved for spells and gripped the man by
his hair. She was not strong, but she held spite, and so she thrusted him over
the edge of the cauldron. Not all the way – but when she slit his throat, the
blood ran in gushing droves over the dried bones.
She hummed anew, the spell, filled with the vigor of
victory and the blood of guilty men.
A flash of light, and then a scream. Vornalla was
knocked back, fallen to the ground as the wailing increased. She scrambled to
her feet and watched as a figure rose from the cauldron, coated in layers of
thick, viscous blood. The bones of the fallen assembled within. Vornalla saw it
bend and swell, watched as layers of muscle and viscera formed on top of the
raw manifestations of gore.
Vornalla dared to approach, to steal the figure’s
head and hold it to her breast as it thrashed and screamed. Blood stained her
gown, but this was her great work, years of sorrow and research manifest, and
so she held on, nearly sobbing when gory hands gripped her arms.
The screaming stopped. The thrashing figure eased.
Vornalla’s breathing was joined by another. She met the gaze of the woman she
held. Gore stained and weak, soaked in blood, those eyes were the same, gentler
than the singing birds at dawn.
The woman coughed, splattering blood across the
floor. She began sobbing, clutching Vornalla in her weak grip. “Vornalla,” she
cried between gasps, and Vornalla held her, her own tears welling.
“Nira, my Nira,” she whispered, caressing her
lover’s blood-soaked hair, and their sobs became one, soft among the quiet
night.
Vornalla helped Nira from the cauldron and held her
naked form on the floor, patches of smooth skin steadily showing as she brushed
aside the gore. A faint heartbeat fluttered against Vornalla’s hand as it
brushed between Nira’s breasts. Cradled in her arms, Nira trembled, daring to
press their lips together.
She tasted of blood and victory, of tears and triumph
and joy. Nira lived again.

The Sting of Victory

Fallen Gods

Book One

S D Simper


Genre: Adult Dark Romantic Fantasy (LGBT)


Publisher: Endless Night Publications


Date of Publication:  September 14th 2018


ISBN: 978-1-7324611-1-6


Number of pages: 400

Word Count:  102K


Cover Artist: Jade Mere


Tagline: The cost of love is always high.


Book Description:



“When faced with monstrosity, become the greater monster. The sting of victory will fade with time.”



When Flowridia, a witch granted power by an unknown demon, deceives an alluring foreign diplomat, she is promoted to a position of power to conceal her falsehood. Thrust into a world of politics and murderous ambition, she has her gentle heart and her Familiar to guide her – as well as a drunk Celestial with a penchant for illusion.



Meanwhile, Lady Ayla Darkleaf, Grand Diplomat of Nox’Kartha, smiles with predatory charm and wields her blades with a dancer’s grace. Flowridia falls into a toxic love affair, one she knows will end in heartbreak. But as Ayla’s legacy as a vampiric creature unfolds, Flowridia begins to see the broken woman behind the monster.



When a foreign emperor dies at the hands of a mysterious interloper, one who seeks to collect the greatest sources of power in the realms, Flowridia’s kingdom is charged to stop him. But Flowridia’s devotion becomes torn between duty to her own and the woman whose claws grip her heart.


In the ensuing clash of Gods, Flowridia must choose her loyalties with care – the fate of kingdoms rest in her hands.


Buy Link:

ASIN: B07H63V28W




About the Author:

S D Simper has lived in both the hottest place on earth and the coldest, spans the employment spectrum from theater teacher to professional editor, and plays more instruments than can be counted on one hand. She and her wife share a home with their two cats and innumerable bookshelves.






The Dragon Hunters Histories of Malweir Book 2 by Christian Warren Freed


The
Dragon Hunters
Histories
of Malweir Book 2
by
Christian Warren Freed


Genre:
Epic Fantasy


The
Mage Wars are a fading memory. The kingdoms of Malweir focus on
rebuilding what was lost and moving beyond the vast amounts of death
and devastation. For some it is easy, others far worse. Some men are
made in battle. Grelic of Thrae is one. A seasoned veteran of
numerous campaigns and raids, Grelic is a warrior without a war. He
languishes under mugs of ale and poor choices that eventually find
him locked in the dungeons of King Rentor. His only chance at
redemption is an offer tantamount to suicide: travel north with a
misfit band of adventurers and learn the truth of what happened in
the village of Gend.
Grelic,
suddenly tired of his life, reluctantly agrees and meets the only
survivor of the horrible massacre: Fitch Iane. Broken, mentally and
physically, Fitch babbles about demons stalking through the mists and
a terrible monster prowling the skies, breathing fire and death.
What
begins as a simple reconnaissance mission quickly turns into a quest
to stop Sidian, the Silver Mage from accomplishing his goals in the
Deadlands. The last of the dark mages seeks to recover the four
shards of the crystal of Tol Shere and open the gateway to release
the dark gods from their eternal prison.
Grelic
and his team are sorely outnumbered and ill prepared to deal with the
combined threats of a dark mage and one of the great dragons from the
west. Not even the might of the Aeldruin, high elf mercenaries, and
Dakeb, the last of the mages, promises to be enough to stop evil and
restore peace to Thrae.








Armies
of the Silver Mage
Histories
of Malweir Book 1

Malweir
was once governed by the order of Mages, bringers of peace and light.
Centuries past and the lands prospered. But all was not well. Unknown
to most, one mage desired power above all else. He turned his will to
the banished Dark Gods and brought war to the free lands. Only a
handful of mages survived the betrayal and the Silver Mage was left
free to twist the darker races to his bidding. The only thing he
needs to complete his plan and rule the world forever are the four
shards of the crystal of Tol Shere.


Having
spent most of their lives dreaming about leaving their sleepy village
and travelling the world, Delin Kerny and Fennic Attleford never
thought that one day they would be forced to flee their town in order
to save their lives. Everything changes when they discover the fabled
Star Silver sword and learn that there are some who want the weapon
for themselves. Hunted by a ruthless mercenary, the boys run from Fel
Darrins and are forced into the adventure they only dreamed
about.

Ever
ashamed of the horrors his kind let loose on the world the last mage,
Dakeb, lives his life in shadows. The only thing keeping him alive is
his quest to stop the Silver Mage from reassembling the crystal. His
chance finally comes through the hearts and wills of Delin and
Fennic. Dakeb bestows upon them the crystal shard, entrusting them
with the one thing capable of restoring peace to Malweir.






Christian
W. Freed was born in Buffalo, N.Y. more years ago than he would like
to remember. After spending more than 20 years in the active duty US
Army he has turned his talents to writing. Since retiring, he has
gone on to publish 17 military fantasy and science fiction novels, as
well as his memoirs from his time in Iraq and Afghanistan. His first
published book (Hammers in the Wind) has been the #1 free book on
Kindle 4 times and he holds a fancy certificate from the L Ron
Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest.


Passionate
about history, he combines his knowledge of the past with modern
military tactics to create an engaging, quasi-realistic world for the
readers. He graduated from Campbell University with a degree in
history and is pursuing a Masters of Arts degree in Military History
from Norwich University. He currently lives outside of Raleigh, N.C.
and devotes his time to writing, his family, and their two Bernese
Mountain Dogs. If you drive by you might just find him on the porch
with a cigar in one hand and a pen in the other.







Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!









Reckless Beginnings by Tina Hogan Grant




Reckless Beginnings
by Tina Hogan Grant


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GENRE: Women’s Fiction  (based on true events)


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BLURB:



Tammy Mellows, a fourteen-year-old native of England, was shocked when her father and troubled older sister, Donna, moved to the States.

With her family now separated by divorce and divided by an ocean, Tammy felt helpless when she learned Donna had run away and couldn’t be found.

Thanks to her father insisting she stay behind in England to finish school, Tammy could do nothing for the next three years but pray that Donna would be found safe.

When Tammy’s lifelong dream of moving to the States was finally fulfilled, she had high hopes of looking for Donna. But with no leads and faced with turmoil in her own life, there wasn’t much Tammy could do.

After a forbidden secret love affair and a catastrophic dispute with her father, Tammy eventually meets Steven, settles down and has his child, only to discover he is a heroin addict. Thrown into a life of drugs and violence. Shadowed by his addiction, she becomes the silent and forgotten one. Living in fear of what Steven might be capable of and struggling alone to provide for her young son.

What consequences might she face if she leaves Steven? Is she ever going to find her sister alive? Will she have enough courage to conquer the impossible challenges of her twisted world and still come out on top?

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Excerpt Two:
When she opened the door, she froze. Time stood still. Subconsciously, her jaw dropped. Before her stood an extremely handsome man holding a bottle of red wine. This was Raymond? Dad’s friend? Was her first thought. He was tall with short brown hair, a broad, dark moustache, and high cheekbones that looked chiseled into his somewhat chubby cheeks, which had a slight distinction of redness to them—in an attractive way. Tammy wasn’t sure if he was cold or just blushing, but as she stood in the doorway staring at him, Tom Selleck came to mind.She lost herself in his deep blue eyes, framed by long, thick black eyelashes. When he flashed a heart-warming smile, she found herself being drawn in even more. He wore blue jeans, blue loafers, and a blue and white checked shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing a few dark chest hairs.

Joanne had told her that he was just a few years younger than her father, but he seemed a lot younger. She could feel her heart rate increasing and soon realized she’d been staring at him in silence with her mouth drooped open like a puppy dog. She’d been staring at him in silence with her mouth drooped open like a puppy dog.

He spoke softly, albeit with a hint of nervousness, in a manly, alluring voice. “Er, hi. Is John home? You must be his daughter. Tammy, right?”










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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Tina Hogan Grant was born in England and grew up in a small town on the Yorkshire Moors. She is the youngest daughter of science fiction author, James P. Hogan. After moving to California, she became a commercial lobster fisherwoman, fishing off the coast of Southern California for ten years with her husband Gordon.

For fourteen years, she’d had a notion of writing her debut novel “Reckless Beginnings”. But it wasn’t until the sudden death of her father in 2010 and a battle with breast cancer a year later that she made the decision to get it done. Seven years later, she finally completed it. She is now working on a sequel titled, “Better Endings.”

She currently resides with her husband in the small mountain community of Frazier Park in Southern California. Together they enjoy anything that involves the outdoors, fishing, hiking, kayaking and riding quads.



Social Media Accounts




INTERVIEW with Tina Hogan Grant
What would we find under your bed?
Oh my, probably a lot of dust. I’ve not looked under there in ages.  Maybe an odd shoe. The other probably got tossed out because it’s mate couldn’t be found. I know we are storing some 16”sq tile under there. Left overs from our bathroom remodel. Other than that whatever is under there has been forgotten.
What was the scariest moment of your life?
I thought being diagnosed with breast cancer would have been my most scariest moment and at the time it was. It was a life changing moment that made me realize just how precious life is and how we should never take anything for granted and don’t procrastinate, because tomorrow may never come. But during my treatment of surgery, radiation and tamoxifen I developed blood clots. Not just one but eight. Five on my lungs and 3 behind my knee. They were discovered because I casually mentioned to my oncologist that I was constantly out of breath. I am usually a very active person, so this was not normal. After ordering a ultra sound the blood clots were discovered and I was rushed to the trauma unit where the doctors immediately injected blood thinner into my body. I was admitted and stayed in the hospital for four days until the blood clots had dissolved. I was then put on Warfarin for six months. This scared me more than the cancer did. If dislodged blood clots can travel through your body and up to your brain where they can kill you instantly.     
Do you listen to music while writing? If so what?
When I write, I have to have complete silence. Any kind of noise is distracting for me. I have tried soft music, even classical in the background but I find myself humming to the tune and not paying attention to my writing.
What is something you'd like to accomplish in your writing career next year?
I am currently working on a sequel for “Reckless Beginnings” titled “Better Endings. I’m hoping (If i discipline myself) to have it completed by June 2019 and ready for the publishing stage. I would also like to have a series of short stories completed that have mulled around in my head and on bits of paper for a few years. These I plan ons starting as soon as the second book is completed.
How long did it take you to write this book?

My book “Reckless Beginnings” had been an idea in my head for over fifteen years. When my father died suddenly and  a year later I was diagnosed with breast cancer I began to get serious about it. It then took another three years to write and eight months for the editing to be completed.  I hope the second book doesn’t take that long.
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