Friday, February 28, 2014

PROMO: Fathoms of Forgiveness

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Fathoms of Forgiveness - PROMO Blitz
By Nadia Scrieva
Paranormal Romance - Epic Fantasy
Date Published: March 2012

Meet the brave and fearless Visola; a woman unlike any you've ever encountered. Her wit and humor take her through the darkest of dangers with a smile always on her face--and her smile only grows larger as the odds become more impossible. With no concern for her own safety, Visola dives headfirst into the throes of battle to protect the people and country she loves, even if it means facing her worst enemy--the one man who can get inside her head and break her down like no other: her own husband...       

There is no divorce in the undersea kingdom of Adlivun. Marriage is a bond that lasts until death--even if death comes in several centuries, and in that time your spouse happens to become your sworn enemy. This is the conflict that General Visola Ramaris faces when she learns that the mighty Vachlan is behind the attacks on her kingdom. She has sworn to protect Adlivun with her life, but long ago, she also swore to love and honor her husband...
Visola must choose whether she will destroy Vachlan once and for all, or attempt the hardest thing conceivable: communication. After two hundred years of desertion, she knows she can never forgive him. When he threatens the person dearest to her, she must take action. Confronting Vachlan on enemy territory would be nothing short of suicide. She knows that if she falls into his custody, the deranged mercenary would relish torturing her and making her lose her own sanity.
Princess Aazuria forbids Visola from taking matters into her own hands. She will do anything it takes to protect her friend from the man who wants to crush her. Alas, Visola is a crazy, uncontrollable warrior with the blood of Vikings in her veins. Why would she ever consider doing the safe and predictable thing?


When Aazuria entered the room, her eyes were immediately drawn to Visola’s wild red hair, which had recently been a lustrous mass of audacious curls. Now, her hair was limp. It hung against her head flat, frizzy and defeated. Aazuria’s eyes darted to the warrior’s sunken cheekbones and gaunt face. She saw the bruises on Visola’s neck before her eyes traveled further to the withered, wasted limbs. Every visible part of her friend’s body was covered in fresh scars. She saw the bandaged hands. Visola had been starved and tortured.

Perhaps in these modern times, even under the surface of the sea, kings, queens, and the aristocracy had close to zero significance. Perhaps the words and decrees which left Aazuria’s mouth would have minimal consequences. No one in the throne room felt this way as they awaited Aazuria’s judgment with bated breath. Sionna was standing aside, with her arms crossed. The newly-crowned queen gripped her husband’s sword tightly in her fist as Trevain and Elandria entered the room behind her.

Aazuria shifted her eyes to the man standing beside her friend. Her face was expressionless.

“Approach me, Vachlan,” she whispered.

The man began walking toward her. Although his stride was dignified, there was hesitation on his face. Visola began speaking, pleading words which Aazuria could not hear over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

When Vachlan was close enough to strike, Aazuria gazed at him with death in her eyes.

“Kneel,” she commanded him. Her chest was rising and falling perceptibly.

Vachlan knew that this would be a very unwise thing to do, but he owed it to Aazuria. He owed it to Visola, and to Adlivun—the nation he had once called home.  He lowered his head and dropped to one knee before the queen, saluting her across his chest. His eyes were level with the sword she held, and he could see the veins bulging through her translucent pale skin from how tightly she clutched it.

“It would be futile to order you punished,” she said slowly. “No one can even attempt to hurt you as much as you have hurt her.”

“I know,” he answered quietly.

“But it is my duty to try.”

She struck out with her sword, slicing the air until the blade collided with his face, knocking Vachlan off his knees and onto the floor. Aazuria could vaguely hear Visola screaming for her to stop, but she was already standing over Vachlan and forcing the tip of her sword between his teeth. Her previous strike had resulted in a huge bleeding gash along the side of his handsome face, but it had not been enough to kill him. She was poised to finish the job.

Vachlan moved his tongue against the steel, tasting the freshly-sharpened metal edge garnished with the metallic taste of his own blood. It is rare that the wine so perfectly accompanies the main dish, he thought as he swallowed the coppery fluid accumulating in his mouth. Kind of like a German Pinot Noir. He looked into the azure eyes of Adlivun’s queen and realized that this was no longer the innocent, charitable philanthropist he had known hundreds of years ago. She was hard. He wondered what percentage of the tempered rage behind her eyes he was responsible for generating.

“One reason.” Aazuria was demanding. “Give me one convincing reason that I should not thrust my blade directly through your skull.”

Nadia Scrieva

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Nadia Scrieva lives in Toronto, Canada with no husband, no kids, and no pets. She does own a very attractive houseplant which she occasionally remembers to water between her all-consuming writing marathons.

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See - PROMO Blitz
By Jamie Magee
YA/NA Crossover Paranormal
Date Published:  May 2012

Forgetting who you are, your ambitions, your lover is crippling. Remembering, embracing your purpose with a new sense of determination is more than empowering. It's soul seizing. Charlie Myers is embarking on a life-altering path that will cause the damned to humble in silence…

One night, just a few friends how could it go so wrong? That was the question Charlie was asking herself when she awoke in the ER. Outwardly nothing was wrong with Charlie, she was a vision of perfect health, but Charlie knew something else was wrong, wickedly wrong. That fearful notion became even more gripping when her mind began to parade haunting visions of entrancing emerald green eyes, laced in black, before her. When she felt a hole in her heart, when the music she drowned her fears in began to amplify the ache in her soul, and caused her to crave an embrace she thought she never knew.

Charlie knew then that part of her was stolen. She was missing memories. Those memories were sacred. They held the key to her sanity. They told her that the sinister whispers, and the shadows that came to life before her, were not as ominous as she felt they were. They caused her to forget the one talent that allowed her to face the darkness that haunted her every waking hour. They also masked a much deeper bond, the face of the one that had stolen her heart, long before that tragically blinding night.

Charlie wanted to stay in NY, fight her demons where she found them, and ensure that her true home remained a sanctuary. Fate had a different plan in mind. Against her will, Charlie was sent to Salem to live with her sister. Within that small town Charlie found her memories…and so much more.
Her story begins now.


“What’s going on?” I asked nervously, hitting ‘Pause’ on my phone as I watched him push the seat back so his legs could have more room.
“I told you I’d tell you how to get back,” he said, smiling faintly.
Every part of me was tingling. Yet, I was frozen in place. I had no idea how I was going to focus well enough to drive.
What would I do if I had to fight these shadows in front of him? I was horrified.
“Yeah, but I thought you meant follow you,” I said, trying to take in a breath after I said the words.
“I wanted to ride with you,” he said, pulling his belt on.
As he leaned closer to me to fasten it, I could smell the addictive aroma of his cologne. I knew that scent. My mind was firing off images of him at warp speed. His scent, his eyes, his energy, every ounce of him was magnifying fantasies I could not comprehend in the state I was in.
“Just for the record, you’re only my second passenger. Third, if you count my teacher,” I said, putting the car in drive.
“Duly noted.”
I caught myself staring into his enchanting eyes. His dark lashes framed the most alluring color I’d ever seen. It was like they were intended to be black, but a shade of the most perfect green had shattered the black canvas that they were.
Eyes that had haunted me for days...
He stared back at me with almost the same wonder, then he quirked a slight grin. “That way,” he said, pointing to the left.
Obviously I was alone in my fascination. Surely if we were anything like my minds eye was telling me we were in some forgotten past he would have said something.
Unless. Unless it was a bad past.
The tinge of pain in my heart let that dark thought enter my mind.
I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I tried to smile through it as I turned the wheel. I crept down the gravel driveway, fighting the glare of the headlights coming from his Hummer. Just before I reached the road, he reached up and moved my rearview mirror, taking the torture of the lights away. He then gently grasped my ear buds and pulled them out. His warm fingertips brushed against my skin, and it took everything I had not to faint. I thought I heard him sigh, just after he took in a deep breath. Those long fingertips of his lingered a little longer, more than likely a second or two, but it felt like hours, then they slid down my neck taking the cords from my ear buds with them.
 I angled my eyes at him to see if I had the same effect on him that he clearly had on me.
 “You have to be able to see and hear if you’re going to get us home,” he explained, relaxing into his seat. He bit his bottom lip as he bathed me in his smoldering gaze. We said a thousand words at that moment. Words I could not hear, but wanted to.

 photo 252327_469060119774642_1944695764_n_zps847d0203.jpgJamie Magee

I'm an obsessive daydreamer. Lover of loud alternative music. Addicted to Red Bull. I love to laugh until it hurts. Fall is my favorite season. Black is my favorite 'shade.' Strong believer in the saying: there is a reason for everything, therefore I search for 'marked moments' every moment of everyday...and I find them. Life is beautiful!

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Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Cover Reveal: Bad Boy vs. Millionaire

Bad Boy vs. Millionaire - Cover Reveal
By Candy Starr
New Adult
Date Published: TBA

When fate forced Hannah Sorrento to take on the management of indie rockers, Storm, she managed to survive but, when she found out she'd been played by their mercurial front man, Jack Colt, the betrayal hit her hard.

She flees to Tokyo, where her father orchestrates a deal to save their collapsed financial empire.  A deal that involves a gorgeous millionaire.

Tamaki is everything Jack isn't and, with their similar backgrounds, he and Hannah form a bond.  He offers her safety and security as well as a return to her luxurious lifestyle.  But the passion Jack arouses in Hannah won't be denied.

In the second Bad Boy Rock Star book, Rock Star vs Millionaire, can Hannah forgive Jack or will she take the sanctuary Tamaki offers?


Jack was in the kitchen, making breakfast. How could a man look so good first thing in the morning? With his tussled hair and baggy pj bottoms… and I didn't even want to think about his arms in that tank top. That curve from his shoulders down his arm. A classically trained ballerina could not move as gracefully as that curve in his muscle as he . If I thought too hard about it, the only decision left in this world would be whether I wanted to trace that indent with my finger tip or my tongue.

"Want a coffee?"

I jumped, hoping he couldn't read my thoughts.

I sat at the kitchen bench with my gaze fixed firmly on my hands.

"So, what's the plan for today?" he asked.

I hadn't really thought about it.

"I guess I should start looking for a place to live."

"You can stay here as long as you like, you know. It's okay." He grinned at me. I'd add that to my collection of the other four or five genuine Jack Colt smiles I'd got in this life.

"With you sleeping on the couch, I don't think so."

The words hung in the air. Emotions flitting over both our faces, words we didn't want to put out there. Jack didn't have to sleep on the couch. I had taken over his bed and that bed had a huge Jack Colt-shaped emptiness that had haunted my dreams.

He squeezed by me to get cups out of the cupboard. In the small kitchen space, I couldn't help but be aware of his physical closeness, the feeling of his body almost brushing against mine and the smell of his skin that even the fresh coffee couldn't hide. I wanted to press against him and feel his heat. I wanted him to be mine to touch and caress but he wasn't. Too many questions hung over us. He'd told me that he wanted me, he wanted to be with me but I still had no idea if I could trust him.

I moved to sit on the sofa, putting some space between us.

Maybe I should just ask, I thought. Bring it all out into the open. Tell him how I felt, my fears and worries. Let him know what was holding me back. But the words didn't exist in me. This wasn't some talk show. We were real people and real people didn't let it all out. They held it deep inside, hugging it to themselves. When you told people how you felt, that gave them the power.

If I was a normal girl, I'd have these straight forward emotions that I could talk about. I'd be able to lay it out on the table, take it or leave it. But, instead my emotions squirmed inside me, burrowing deeper and deeper.

Candy Starr
 photo candy_zpseb97f9bd.jpgCandy J. Starr used to be a band manager until she realised that the band she managed was so lacking in charisma that they actually sucked the charisma out of any room they played. “Screw you,” she said, leaving them to wallow in obscurity – totally forgetting that they owed her big bucks for video equipment hire.

Candy has filmed and interviewed some big names in the rock business, and a lot of small ones. She’s seen the dirty little secrets that go on in the back rooms of band venues. She’s seen the ugly side of rock and the very pretty one.

But, of course, everything she writes is fiction.

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Monday, February 24, 2014

PROMO: Scarlet Revenge

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Scarlet Revenge - PROMO Blitz
By Ann McGinnis
Date Published: January 21, 2014
Romantic Suspense

The FBI doesn’t know what to do with Analyst Caycee Scarlet. She’s brash, brilliant & brutally relentless when tracking a serial killer. But she also has a temper, problems with authority figures and recognizing the chain of command.

Things go sideways for Caycee when she uncovers a lead that saves the Omega Killer’s latest victim. Rather than working the system and making nice with her pompous boss, sparks fly and she gets into an altercation with the lead Special Agent on the case, resulting in a transfer to another assignment.

Caycee finds herself transferred to an FBI interrogation facility where she assesses the most dangerous of criminals in custody. She struggles to get over the loss of her dream job, but her new boss, handsome Special Agent Gil Graham, may soften the blow. Sparks, of a different variety, fly between the Special Agent and his new Analyst, as they work together to crack the most difficult cases.

Just when Caycee’s wounds are healing from her expulsion on the Omega Killer team, she is dragged back into the thick of it. Caycee and her new team are front and center, focused on an interview of a bombing suspect, when Omega comes looking for revenge. His attack wounds her team, leaving Caycee with only one option for help—the devastatingly handsome bombing suspect. It will take all of Caycee’s wits, and a kiss for luck, to stop Omega and save her co-worker.


Chapter One

Our steps echoed down the stark hallway. Clean. Institutional. And utterly amazing. Caycee Scarlet was finally walking along the hallowed hallways of the FBI. It was a good day for me.
"Say nothing, Scarlet," Special Agent in Charge Tony Wilkes ordered. He threw me a look over his shoulder. "Even if someone asks you a question, keep your mouth shut." He laughed to himself. "No one will ask you a question.”
Wilkes had already made it clear that I was the newest member of the Omega Killer Task Force. As such, I should listen more than talk, act fast when given orders, and let the seasoned team members guide my every move. It seemed like the equivalent of an FBI-whipping boy. Or girl, in my case. I didn’t care. Everyone started at the bottom. I was ready to put in the time needed to earn their respect.
At least, I looked good in a form-fitting black suit. It was more than I could afford, but I figured I would live in the outfit. Besides, it sent a message. I valued my appearance, even if I had to dress like a man, I'd still look like a woman.
I'd had the suit cut to fit my curves, which were on the athletic side. My auburn hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. It hung past my shoulders, showing off my best feature – my eyes. As a window into my soul, they were unflinching. I did admire my own intelligence, probably a character flaw, but hopefully that wouldn’t show in my eyes. The traits I wanted to show: no nonsense, quick witted, relentless.
"You get the crap jobs," Wilkes said, acting as if his honesty was attractive. A few hours in the gym and hair implants, maybe. Not that I didn’t find bald men attractive, just not this one. "I can't lie," he continued, "we'll be throwing you every crap job that this case delivers, but you're on a big case. That don't happen to many newbies."
I wasn't that new, but I guessed he didn’t count the eight months of testing and background checks. I did. Or my training at Quantico. It all counted to me.
The agency gave us two years to prove ourselves. After that, candidates either earned their spot or were let go. I couldn't imagine putting in all that time and failing.
I had a feeling success would require long hours and serious ass-kissing. I just needed to find someone with a cute ass. It sure wasn't Wilkes.
We passed three large rooms filled with personnel. One looked to be the size of a football field filled with cubicles. “You’ll be in here,” Wilkes waved, “but first I want you to see the Dugout.”
He led me to a large conference room, its walls filled with crime photos, running news feeds and a huge whiteboard for pertinent case data. “The Omega Killer is priority number one,” Wilkes said, opening the conference room door for me. “This is where the main players are at bat.”
I slowed at the door, sensing a real sports theme to the way he liked to operate. Perhaps one day, I’d be his most valuable player. It looked competitive, though. Wilkes’s team already consisted of veteran agents and analysts. They seemed a cohesive group, working in unison to stop a psychotic killer.
Wilkes quickly ran through Omega’s deadly stats, but he didn’t need to bother. I knew the case inside and out. Killers were my hobby.
I made the mistake of saying that to a date once. I never saw a man escape faster, admonishing me by exclaiming: “You’re sick, truly sick.” Hopefully, my academic interest in killers wouldn’t repel men in the FBI.
Not that I was here to find a man, but I was twenty-eight and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere in this organization was my perfect match. After all, I needed a man who liked to catch killers.
“Are you listening to me?” Wilkes sounded irritated.
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “The Omega Killer marks his victims’ forehead with the sign of the Omega. All indications are that it signals the moment he’s ready to make the fatal cut, into his victim’s left breast. Such a wound, based on other serial killers, suggests Omega has mommy issues, but I personally believe that it signals a desire to find love.”
Wilkes made a face at me. Clearly he did not care for my analysis. “That’s not what I was talking about. Geez, he wants to find love? Table that thought, quickly, and get back in the game.”
He raised his arms, showing off the Dugout. "Welcome to the nerve center of our investigation. We call this the show," he said, then clapped his hands together to get the room’s attention. "Everyone, this is Intelligence Analyst Caycee Scarlet."
The agents, analysts and techs turned from their work. Some at laptops along one side of a long mahogany conference table and others working on reports across from them. Several agents were standing, talking in a small group. They barely looked over at me, too busy for someone below them on the FBI food chain. The analysts nodded an acknowledgement. Matter-of-fact. No smiles. No words of welcome.
I gave a half-hearted nod to the room, hoping I'd make a better impression later. Probably much later, if I was reading the total lack of interest correctly. It must be the pressure of catching Omega. Tension hung in the room. With twelve victims to date, catching the killer had them all wound up.
Wilkes pointed to a side table stacked with boxes. The top one filled with old cell phones, victim personal effects and police reports. "We need them properly catalogued. You know, a searchable database. I’m told you were the most anal student in your class. Go at it."
His voice trailed off, but I didn't know if he'd stopped talking or I'd stopped listening. Maybe a little of both, because I read the whiteboard. One of the hand-scribbled numbers was written incorrectly.
Without thinking, I went over to the board and used the heel of my right hand to wipe off an area code. Everyone in the room stopped working and screamed at me.
"What have you done?" Wilkes shouted louder than anyone else.
I came out of my trance and blinked at him. Whatever I said next could make or break me, so I said nothing.
"Every piece of information is vital to solving the case," he scolded. He turned to the room. "Can we fix it? What was that number?"
Blank stares.
I quickly picked up a dry erase marker and wrote the numbers back on the board. It was only three digits.
Screams went up all around me again.
"What?" I asked. "That's the number I erased. But it's wrong. It's a phone number, right? Someone transposed the area code. 3-7-1 is not an area code, but 7-3-1 is New Jersey."
No one screamed at me that time, but their looks were deadly.
"Is that right?" Wilkes asked the room. His eyes darted from the whiteboard to the closest agent. He wanted confirmation before his head exploded.
"Shit," the agent said.
Wilkes grabbed his head.
The agent couldn't look at me. "She's right, sir.”
“Okay, we’re okay, fix it and double-check everything that goes on the board, people,” Wilkes barked.
The agent took the dry erase marker from me and fixed the numbers. Wilkes waved two fingers at a petite woman with raven hair twisted into a bun. “Take care of this.” He pointed at me.
FBI Analyst Nina Dunbar instantly responded. She rolled her eyes and grabbed a stack of boxes, indicating with her elbow that I was to take the rest. “Follow me,” she sighed. “Consider this your first and last favor.”
I shot a glance at Wilkes, but he already had his nose in a file folder, barking orders to the closest agent. He had no time for me. No one did. I exited the conference room, utterly deflated by my welcome to the FBI.

Ann McGinnis

 photo Ann20Photo_zps844d346c.jpgAnn McGinnis started writing romantic suspense to combine two things— thrillers & foreplay! Connect with Ann and upcoming news about the Scarlet Suspense Series:

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PROMO: Earthwalker

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Earthwalker - PROMO Blitz
By Kellie Wallace
Urban Fantasy
Date Published: 1/29/2014

Noah is an angel whose job relies on collecting human souls who aren’t ready to leave their vessels. To his brothers Michael and Gabriel, he is just another rookie, earning his arch angel wings. When Noah catches an earth bound demon in his form stealing a soul, he is sent back to Heaven to plead his case. But no one believes him. He is banished from heaven for a crime he didn’t commit, given one year on earth to find the demon responsible for his framing. If he fails to do so, he will be dragged to hell for eternity.
On his first day on earth he meets publishing assistant Fern Holliday who helps him get back on his feet. She is reluctant in getting close to him, but agrees to help Noah find the demon. By following the signs Michael sends him, Noah and Fern travel the world in search of the demon. They grow closer every day until Fern is struck down by a mystery illness. Noah is at loss at what to do as her condition worsens. Before the year is up and he returns to heaven empty handed the demon appears agreeing to be taken back, only if Noah takes Fern’s soul to Lucifer. Will he follow the strict rules of heaven or succumb to his heart? Meanwhile Lucifer’s army is growing stronger.


Noah entered the hospital foyer and shivered, his wet woollen coat dripping water onto the laminate floor. Around him people moaned, writhing in pain or comforted loved ones. He always hated coming to hospitals, the trip often leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
A young nurse engrossed in her paperwork passed him unaware of his stained clothes, wet from the rain. He must have stunk, having spent most of the night shivering in an alleyway, gaining the courage to come inside the building. He gazed at the nurses behind the reception desk taking calls and admitting new patients. They wouldn’t notice if he snuck down the hall to Room 205.
He inadvertently lifted a hand to caress his left shoulder, branded with a handprint of an archangel. It stung tonight meaning his next soul was nearby. He remembered the night he’d gotten the brand, lying on his bathroom tiles dying of a heroin overdose in 1965. He didn’t see who’d grabbed him from near death but he did remember their grip on his shoulder, their fingers boiling his skin like plastic. His soul, ripped from his body, pulled through the ceiling and into the stars. He woke up days later, hovering over a dead body. He didn’t recognise them, or how they died but somehow he knew what to do. He rested his hand upon their shoulder and was temporarily impaired by a bright light. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind a feeling of euphoria. Whatever he had done felt right. A baby’s cry snapped Noah back to reality, back to the dripping coat and the chill in his bones. The smell of the hospital nauseated him. He tapped his notepad against his chest and remembered the job he had to do. He wandered down the hall passing the dead or dying in their hospital beds. They were not his tonight.
When he approached Room 205, he fished in his pocket and withdrew his leather-bound notepad. Embossed in gold was the name of his next soul. Damien Jacobs. According to Noah’s Intel from Heaven, the man had terminal cancer, dead for at least an hour. But his soul was still affixed to the hospital, not ready to leave Earth.
Noah pressed a hand against the door and searched the halls. A nurse ducked into a room nearby, a patient hung by the cafeteria. No one paid him any attention, so he turned invisible, sucking energy from the objects around him. Reaping souls took stamina and energy, draining him quickly. He had a short window of time before he materialised again.
Noah stepped into the room and paused to listen to the sound of weeping. Damien lay dead in his bed, tubes still attached to his lifeless body. After all these years as an angel, he could never forget the colour of the human skin once a soul left the body. The fragile area around Damien’s eyes appeared transparent and elastic. His family sat around him, hunched over, each gripping onto a piece of his blanket, desperate to capture his soul before it left his body. Noah saw movement in the corner of his eye. Damien stood beside him in a white hospital robe, his face blank and deadpan. “Am I dead?”
Noah froze, knowing his answer could change Damien’s fragile frame of mind. When a soul is fresh from the body, there was no telling whether they would be agitated or bitter about their death. It all came down to the first interaction. An angel must treat them as though they were still alive, human.
He took a steady step towards Damien, his hand out stretched. “I am afraid it is true. But you must come with me now,” he said gently.

Kellie Wallace

 photo Kellie20Wallace20author20pic_zps17f08074.jpgBorn in Sydney, Australia Kellie Wallace developed a love for the written word early in life, recalling her earliest memory when she was three years old. Her father used to read to her when she was a child, establishing a deep love and respect for books. Kellie wrote a bit in high school, most memorably her first fantasy book called Giblin the Conquer, an X Files fan fiction and a military fiction. She didn’t write another word until 2007.
After finishing high school, Kellie moved to the sunny Northern Beaches from the Central Coast and carved a successful career in the media/advertising industry writing for numerous Sydney based publications.
An aspiring novelist, Kellie fulfilled a dream in 2008 having her first book All She Ever Wanted published by Zeus Publications at the age of 22 years old.
In 2013, Kellie released her next catalogue of books Darkness before Dawn, Skylark. In her spare time she loves to write, game and draw. Her first crime fiction novel To lean of falling men will be out in 2014, along with EarthWalker and dystopian Edge of Tomorrow.

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Friday, February 21, 2014

PROMO: Storm Without End

Storm Without End – Promo Blitz
By R.J. Blain
Epic Fantasy
Date Published: November 10, 2013

Kalen’s throne is his saddle, his crown is the dirt on his brow, and his right to rule is sealed in the blood that stains his hand. Few know the truth about the one-armed Rift King, and he prefers it that way. When people get too close to him, they either betray him or die. The Rift he rules cares nothing for the weak. More often than not, even the strong fail to survive.

When he’s abducted, his disappearance threatens to destroy his home, his people, and start a hopeless and bloody war. There are many who desire his death, and few who hope for his survival. With peace in the Six Kingdoms quickly crumbling, it falls on him to try to stop the conflict swiftly taking the entire continent by storm.

But something even more terrifying than the machinations of men has returned to the lands: The skreed. They haven’t been seen for a thousand years, and even the true power of the Rift King might not be enough to save his people — and the world — from destruction.


“Be welcomed to the Spire of the Eternal, Breton, Guardian of the King. What do you seek?”
“Knowledge and advice,” he admitted, unable to stop from frowning. “Is Crysallis here?”
“My sister walks the world. I may be young, but perhaps I can help?” Asaleese cocked her head to the side. Without looking away from him, she reached up and threw back the hood of her cloak to reveal her short-cropped, black hair. “Come, and be as one of us for as long as you can.”
Breton shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out the pouch he’d taken from the corpses on the plains. “Do you know of the outsiders?”
“I did know of them. You will be pleased, I think, to learn that their voices do not pollute the song of our ancestors. One remains, but flees up the trails in fear of the one who follows. I feel for their horses, wretched though they might be. I do not think he will find them worthy.”
Instead of replying, the witch gestured for him to follow. Stairs circled the entry niche’s walls to vanish through a hole far above.
Breton swallowed back a sigh and began to climb. “I haven’t seen Crysallis in quite a while.”
“She wanders far,” Asaleese replied.
“It seems like a rather contagious disease. I don’t suppose you have a cure for it, do you?” Breton asked in a dry tone.
“You’ve been keeping company with Maiten again, haven’t you?”
“Not for half a year or more. He’s in Mithrias.”
“He’ll be disappointed to learn of all of the excitement he has missed, then.” Asaleese guided him to the next level and sprawled on a stone bench covered with pillows. A thick carpet of furs covered the stone, and another bench lined the far wall. “Sit. Be comfortable. A drink? Perhaps I can tempt you with some Hessis for when we’ve finished talking about what has brought you up here.”
“I might be tempted,” Breton admitted, flashing the witch a smile. “It may be a while until we cross paths again.”
“Then allow me to give you a fitting farewell until we meet again. I, for one, will miss your skill in the spearing caves.” Asaleese sighed. “Do try not to get yourself killed chasing after that foal of yours.”
“And here I thought you’d miss me for other reasons,” Breton replied, feigning disappointment.
“We’ll discuss this at length — later. Surely that pouch isn’t all that brought you up the Eternal Spire?” The witch held out her hand. Breton dropped the pouch into her palm and sat on the floor beside her.
“It did, in part. What’s in it?”
“You haven’t opened it?”
Breton shook his head. “They had poisoned their weapons.”
“What do you think is within?”
“The Three Sisters,” Breton replied with a cringe. “I was hoping it wasn’t.”
“You’re wise not to open it then.” Asaleese slipped a finger under the string tying the pouch closed and opened it. Three sachets fell out into the palm of her other hand. “It seems your guess may have been correct.” Setting two of the smaller pouches aside, she opened the third and dipped her finger in. She lightly touched the white powder to the tip of her tongue. “Vellest. It seems it is as you feared.”

 photo RJBlain_zps2e47aa58.jpgRJ Blain suffers from a Moleskine journal obsession, a pen fixation, and a terrible tendency to pun without warning.

When she isn't playing pretend, she likes to think she's a cartographer and a sumi-e painter. In reality, she herds cats and a husband. She also has a tendency to play MMOs and other computer games.

In her spare time, she daydreams about being a spy. Should that fail, her contingency plan involves tying her best of enemies to spinning wheels and quoting James Bond villains until she is satisfied.

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Saturday, February 15, 2014

PROMO: Killing Bliss

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Killing Bliss - PROMO Blitz
By E C Sheedy
Date Published: June 2013

Romantic Suspense

One night. Two bullets. Three runaways.

Addy Michaels, living her careful life on a forgotten back road, thinks she's safe--that her past and its corpses are long buried. Surely after fifteen years the cops have quit looking for the street kids believed to have kidnapped a baby and killed their prostitute foster mother, Belle Bliss.

Addy couldn't be more wrong.

A cold case. Hot again, when the missing child's grandmother hires renowned profiler Cade Harding to find her grandson. Cade tracks Addy to her safe haven in a remote area of Washington state. Their attraction to each other is immediate, dangerous, and badly timed because...

Cade isn't alone.

A twisted killer, faceless and unknowable, follows in Cade's footsteps--on the hunt for anyone who can tell the truth about killing Bliss.

All roads lead to Addy.


Cade looked at Stan and Susan, two aging lovers—and he'd decided they were definitely lovers. Susan's eyes were wide, expectant. Stan's were judgmental and pissed off.

Cade turned to Susan, genuinely puzzled. "Why now?" he asked. "After all these years, why ask me to investigate now?"

"Mainly because I didn't know, until your mother's funeral, that you could help. It was your wife who told me what you did, how successful you were. She was very proud of you, you know." She paused. "As for your mother? Whenever I asked about you, she said very little, other than you'd 'taken off and left her alone, just like your father."

Cade might have protested, except for the glint of understanding in Susan's eyes, an understanding that no doubt came from years of her lending his mother money. He didn't bother defending himself, say how he'd kept in touch with his mother until she died and sent a regular monthly check. His business.

"That it?" he asked, wanting to end the conversation.
"No. The big reason is Frank Bliss is being paroled after serving seven years for manslaughter."

Stan interjected. "Go back a bit, Susie."

She pursed her lips. "A few months after the murder, I met with Frank Bliss. I'd hoped to learn something the police hadn't—stupid, I know—but..." She took a few steps, then turned back to face him, her expression defiant. "Ever since, I've felt that boy knew more than he'd told."

"You 'felt'?" Even though Cade's career as a profiler centered on building a whole loaf from discarded chaff, he'd learned to distrust the I felt phrase—so often too close to its sister phrase, I wish, to be worthwhile.

"I figured you'd glom on to that word, but regardless, I'll stand by it. Frank Bliss was either lying or not telling everything he knew."

"If you consider his mother was brutally murdered—literally before his eyes—why would he lie? What do you think he'd gain from it?"

"I have no idea," she said. "But ever since the murder, Frank Bliss has been in jail more than he's been out. I suspect he lies for all kinds of reasons."

"And his brother?"

Stan answered. "Dead. Knifed in an alley after a fight in some club. About three years after the murder."

"Unlucky family," Cade said. "A good psychologist might say it was his mother's murder that turned Frank bad in the first place."

"He'd be wrong," Susan said, "because Frank didn't like his mother."

"He told you that?"

"He didn't have to. It was in his face, in his eyes. I think he was happy she was dead."

"Even if you're right, it doesn't prove—"

She stopped him with a raised hand, her eyes coal hard and direct. "If he didn't care about his mother, he certainly wouldn't care about a sixteen-month-old baby. Whatever his reasons, I think he lied." She waved her hand in a frustrated action, her voice rose. "Maybe he killed his mother, maybe the lies were to protect himself, or his kid brother—"

"That's a lot of maybes, Susan." Cade said quietly. "Besides, you said the police checked Brett's alibi."

"They could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time."

The room went quiet, and Stan arched a brow and looked at Cade, his expression bordering on sympathetic. "Susie hasn't let this case go since she found out about Josh. She's not about to stop now," he said.

Maybe not, but Cade knew they'd stepped hip deep into the realm of conjecture and magical thinking on a murder that occurred fifteen years ago. "It's a waste of time. Mine and yours," Cade said. He hadn't left WSU to get mired in someone else's problem, someone else's grief—or to work a case with a serious case of freezer burn. He'd walked this walk before. Swampland in a fog. "I'm sorry," he said again, more firmly this time. "I can't help you."

Again the room fell to silence, broken finally by Susan's heavy sigh.

"I didn't want to do this," she said. "But you leave me no choice." She met his eyes, her gaze unwavering. "You do this for me, Cade, and I'll forget what your mother owed me, which over the years came to over sixty-five thousand dollars."

She might as well have hit him in the gut with a two-by-four. His breath swooshed out, then he shook his head, muttered, "Son-of-a-bitch."

"No," Susan stated in a clear, measured tone. "I'm the mother of a dead daughter who's missing her grandson. Sons-of-bitches don't even come close."

Addy picked up her paint gear, straightened, and let her gaze drift over Star lake. Ruffled by the wind, it was a blanket of rippling diamonds in the afternoon sun. She swiveled, her gaze feasting on the tiny property: the cabins, ten of them sporting new paint jobs and looking proud and pretty, the fresh gravel she'd laid in the driveway, and the new sign in amusing fifties-style lettering she'd had done for over the office door. All of it her work, her dream, her safety net.
She headed for the maintenance shed, but hadn't taken more than three steps before she heard a car turn off the highway and scrunch its way along her new gravel.

She looked over her shoulder to see a Cherokee—maybe three or four years old—pull up to the office steps. A man and a dog—probably the same age as the truck—got out. Knowing Toby would handle them, Addy continued on to the shed and stowed her supplies neatly on the shelves.

The man was coming out of the office as she approached. The big yellow dog, who'd been sitting outside the door, got up, wagging its tail and wiggling its rear end as if he'd been abandoned for a month rather than the few minutes it had taken for his owner to check in.

There were three steps up to the office door. From the bottom one, she said, "Friendly?" And nodded at the dog.

The man smiled and patted the dog's head. "A teddy bear, especially if there's food around."

"Does he have a name?" She ran a hand along the silky fur on his back. She really should get a dog... if she stayed.

"Redge." He shifted his gaze from the dog and met hers. "What about you?"

Her nerves jangled, and she tucked her hands in the pockets of her overalls. "Me?" she said, sounding confused and stupid and knowing she was neither.

"Name. Do you have one?"

She pulled her hands from her pockets, stuck one out straight as a lance, and said, "Addy Michaels. I'm the owner of Star Lake."

She wasn't sure, but she thought she saw him blink a couple of times, his eyes sharpen. He definitely hesitated before taking her hand, then smiled as if he was obliged to, kind of cool and polite. "Addy. I'm Cade Harding. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. I take it you'll be staying with us?" She dropped to one knee to pet the dog, and get out from under his eyes, which suddenly seemed a bit too intense.
"A couple of days at least." He hesitated. "Maybe more."

She got to her feet, risked looking up at him. He resembled Gus a little, or how she imagined Gus would look with a few years on him. Dark hair, dark eyes, a bit of stubble around the chin, body on the lean side. Gus's face would be harder though, colder, not so... bookish or calm. And Gus’s eyes were a strange amber brown, nothing at all like Cade Harding's, which were a green color that reminded Addy of cedar boughs. "You sound like a man without a destination."

He didn't smile this time, but he did tilt his head a bit. Her nerves skittered again when his gaze fixed on her. “As destinations go this will do just fine.”

About the Author:
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EC Sheedy

EC Sheedy lives and writes on Vancouver Island in British Columbia. With the ocean a few steps from her door and Zuke, a 110 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback, sleeping on the sofa in her office, she considers herself one very lucky writer. But her real luck is being married to Tim, her first and final husband.

EC writes both contemporary romance and romantic suspense, the latter because sometimes a nasty and conniving villain pops into my head and she just has to get him out.
She dislikes cooking.
She dislikes nosy people.
She dislikes too many rainy days in a row.
She dislikes snakes.

And the only word she hates is hate—especially when used as a verb.
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