PROMO: Goodbye Demons

 

Suspense, Historical Fiction

Date Published: 04-24-2026

Publisher: Salty Books Publishing Company, LLC

When injuries cut short the figure skating career of Angie Fernandez Parnell, she joins the Peace Corps. She is assigned to Tunis where she finds her soulmate, U.S. diplomat James Whitcomb. At the conclusion of their tours of duty, they marry, and within weeks of the wedding, he is taken captive in the Iranian Hostage Crisis of 1979-81.

James, held hostage at the U.S. Embassy in Teheran, endures the same demons that afflicted the real-life hostages during the actual crisis 45 years ago. Deprivation, bad treatment, political manipulation, and above all the uncertainty of whether or when it would all end.

Angie, biting her nails at home, endures her own demons. How can she support him? Should she join efforts that pressure the president to negotiate a release? Or even a rescue? A take-charge person by nature, she follows a path that will reap huge benefits if it works. Or destroy her life if it fails.

Goodbye Demons is a visceral, emotionally charged exploration of resilience in the face of adversity. It is the story of a man and a woman struggling to overcome demons beyond their control.

 

Excerpt

This was the chance of a lifetime, and Angie swore she wouldn’t blow it. She did elaborate stretching exercises and weight training. She followed a dietician’s meal plan and skated five days a week under the guidance of her coach. Angie concocted a brilliant plan to capture the Gold at Nationals and guarantee her a slot on the Olympic team.

Her coach objected. “No woman has ever done a triple axel, and you’re not ready.”

“I did it in practice. You saw me.”

“You fell. A perfect double axel that you’re capable of doing trumps a triple axel that you screw up.”

Angie was determined to do the triple without falling. She doubled down on her training regime. Bruising falls came each day. It wasn’t until a week before the competitions that she completed a triple. She grinned triumphantly at her surprised coach. Then on the next try she took a nasty fall that left her limping when she rose from the ice. Her coach sped over to her. After making sure Angie had broken no bones, she again warned her to stop trying the triple axel.

“You’re not ready. It’s a riverboat gamble.”

“I have to take the gamble when I’ve got the chance.”

“You’ll have a chance next year. You’ll be stronger and more experienced. That’ll be the time to do it.”

“In the meantime, some other girl might do it first, and nobody will ever hear about me. Even if I do one the next day. Can you tell me who was the second woman to fly across the Atlantic?”

About the Author

Historical thriller author JJ Harrigan is a former US Service Officer and political science professor. He scribbles his tales of intrigue on the banks of the St. Croix River in Minnesota, where he lives with his wife, Sandy.

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Blog Tour: Between These Walls

 

A Gripping Journey Through History's Darkest Corridors

Historical, 20th Century, World War II & Holocaust

Date Published: March 26, 2020

History has a way of hiding its deepest secrets behind closed doors and within silent walls. Some stories remain buried for decades, waiting for the right moment to emerge and demand to be told. Between These Walls is not merely a work of historical fiction, but a profound exploration of identity, survival, and the unbreakable bonds that connect generations across time and tragedy. Written by Michael Newman, this compelling narrative weaves together threads of war, persecution, and redemption into a tapestry that refuses to release its grip on the reader's heart and mind.

A Tale Woven from Three Families

In the summer of 1988, New York art curator Daniel Singer receives a mysterious package from West Berlin, sealed with security tape that will shatter everything he thought he knew about himself and his family. What begins as a simple delivery transforms into an extraordinary odyssey that spans continents and decades, pulling Daniel into a labyrinth of secrets that have been carefully guarded for over forty years.

Newman masterfully constructs a dual timeline that oscillates between May 1945 and July 1988, creating a narrative bridge across generations. In the dying days of World War II, on the American occupied side of Germany's Elbe River, US Army Medical Corps Colonel Samuel Singer stumbles upon the shot-up wreck of a smoldering SS staff car. Inside: a badly injured driver, a dead German Army officer carrying the ID of a Nazi war criminal, and a young blonde woman, also dead in the back seat. This haunting discovery sets in motion a chain of events that will echo across four decades.

The story sweeps across the battlefields of World War I, through the horrors of World War II and the Holocaust, into the founding of Israel, and through three Middle East wars. Each historical moment is rendered with meticulous attention to detail and emotional authenticity.

The involvement of the Mossad, Israel's legendary intelligence agency, adds layers of intrigue and suspense to Daniel's quest. As he uncovers shocking truths about his heritage, Daniel must navigate a treacherous landscape where the past and present collide, where old wounds remain fresh, and where the consequences of long-buried secrets threaten to destroy everything he holds dear. Following one American family and two German families, Newman crafts a narrative that explores not just acts of evil and callous indifference but also acts of heroism, generosity, and love in the time of Adolf Hitler's rise and eventual defeat.

A Labor of Love Rooted in Personal History

Newman's research was exhaustive and deeply personal. He traveled throughout Europe, visiting the actual locations that appear prominently in the book. He walked the streets of Berlin, discovering the stolpersteine, the engraved brass plaques embedded in the cobblestone streets marking where Jewish families lived before the Nazis deported them to their deaths in Auschwitz. He ventured to the Eagle's Nest in Berchtesgaden near Munich, Hitler's wartime summer home perched high in the Bavarian Alps. Most significantly, he visited Mauthausen concentration camp itself, where his own father had been imprisoned by the Nazis in 1944-45.

"My visits to Mauthausen, Berlin and Hitler's summer home at Eagle's Nest were the motivators for me to write Between These Walls," Newman explains.

"These places provided me with the inspiration and ideas for the plot and premise of the book. With the global rise in antisemitism, the words 'Never again' couldn't ring truer."

The book's website features a compelling gallery of images from Newman's travels, including photographs of historical documents, and the actual locations featured in the story

Discover the Truth Behind the Walls

Between These Walls is available for purchase through multiple platforms, making it accessible to readers worldwide. The novel is available in both paperback and Kindle editions.

 

About the Author

 

 Michael Newman brings an unparalleled authenticity to Between These Walls because he writes not as a distant observer of history, but as someone whose life has been indelibly shaped by it. The son of Holocaust survivors, Newman has always had a deep interest in the Second World War, not as an academic pursuit, but as a personal mission to understand and honor the experiences that defined his family's existence. He received first-hand accounts of what happened during WWII in the concentration camps, particularly Mauthausen, where his father was imprisoned.

Newman's mother, aunt, and grandmother were hidden by Righteous Gentiles in Budapest during World War II. His father fought in the Hungarian Army, dug trenches in a forced labor battalion near Stalingrad, and later endured eight terrible months at Mauthausen in Austria. In 1956, at age twelve, Newman himself became a refugee, slogging through mud and snow, dodging guard huts to escape into Austria after the crushed Hungarian uprising against the Soviets.

Years later, as a successful self-made real estate magnate and founder of InterRent, a real estate investment trust on the Toronto Stock Exchange, Newman could have allowed his professional achievements to define him. Instead, he chose to honor his heritage by telling a story that needed to be told. He has since taken his wife, three children, and one granddaughter on trips to Mauthausen, ensuring that the next generation never forgets.

During the Second Lebanon War in 2006, concerned over what he perceived as one-sided news coverage against Israel, he had the opportunity to travel, surreptitiously, to Israel. Using a connection with an Israeli intelligence colonel, Newman spent a week in the war zone, visiting bomb shelters, air raid command centers, and troops in the field. This experience became a model for a character in his book who helped Israel fight for independence in 1948.

"I am not a religious person, but I do identify myself with what happened during the Holocaust and I am very much a Zionist and support the founding of Israel," Newman says.

This conviction breathes through every page of Between These Walls, giving the novel an emotional authenticity that resonates with readers across all backgrounds.

Today, Newman lives on Toronto's waterfront with his wife, Dixie, and their Morkie, Mia. Surrounded by five children and eleven grandchildren, he has transformed the pain of his family's past into a gift for future generations. Writing books, as Newman admits, is "a career change I wasn't expecting to make at this stage of life. It's been gratifying for the ego." He is currently working on a sequel with the working title A Daughter's Revenge, and has hired a screenwriter on spec to craft a six-part series based on his first book.

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PROMO: STRINGS

 

Contemporary Fiction

Date Published: 11-23-2025

 

 A pandemic is spreading across the globe. A national lockdown looms in the United States. A Southern journalist sees a chance to protect her health and jumpstart her career by escaping north to a Minnesota wilderness. Feisty and wary of entanglement, she piques the interest of a bored Native American rock star on his way home.

Robby Song’s career may be on hold, but Grace Wheeler is on a mission to build hers. To Robby, she’s an intriguing challenge. To Grace, he’s a distraction she’s not ready to handle. But the brutal Northwoods winter is coming. Grace flees back south . . . to soul-searching isolation and a puzzling middle-of-the-night call.

Excerpt

PART I – THE NORTHWOODS

 

Chapter 1 – Airports

          Empty. No sounds except flight announcements and Covid precautions over the PA as Grace trekked alone through the wide, carpeted corridors, stepped onto the moving walkways, and passed the shuttered kiosks, shops, and restaurants of the Minneapolis airport. The few people she saw, behind counters or scurrying past at safe distances, wore surgical masks, except for one or two who had creative, last-minute coverings . . . red bandannas or black gaiters. The antiseptic smell of hand sanitizer hung in the air, penetrating her mask. If she closed her eyes, she could think she was in a hospital. Her hair probably reeked of the stuff. Of course, her gate was the last one. She shrugged her old, green backpack off and sank into a seat against the wall, leaning her head back and closing her eyes, hoping the flight was still happening. Except for her, the gate area was deserted. Maybe she could drift off.
But it was no good. She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, and the adrenaline had worn off, but she was growing anxious. Maybe she wasn’t as brave or capable as she’d thought. She sat up, pulled the tablet out of her backpack, and began rereading her notes from the last interview she’d done, the one with the middle school English teacher about online classes. She needed to get it written up and into her editor. She could not lose this job, her only income. A seat creaked nearby. She looked up. She hadn’t heard him walk up, but good sign, another passenger. A man was sitting with his head leaned back against the window, eyes closed, long legs stretched in front of him, a guitar case leaning against the next seat with a tan jacket thrown over it. Before long, he sat up, glanced at her over his black mask with tiny gold stars, rose, and walked to the bank of windows at the end of the concourse. He stood there, looking out, a tall, thin man all in black, with a long braid. Quite the silhouette. She looked back at her notes.
“Cozy, huh? A whole airport and just the two of us.”
She jumped. The voice was unexpected . . . and hoarse. He was six feet in front of her. She stared up at him. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Well, I try to look for the positive.” He paused and cleared his throat but didn’t turn away. “I’m going in search of coffee. If you’ll keep an eye on my things, I’ll bring you some.”  
“I’ll watch them.”
He moved the guitar and jacket to a seat in her row, then straightening, looked at her. “You want coffee or not? You didn’t actually say.”
They studied each other then, the way people do when they’re wearing masks — all eyes. His were dark, almost black, under barely arched eyebrows. They looked at her steadily . . . with a touch of amusement? Hers were brown, with the beginning of a worry wrinkle between her brows. She looked back with a serious expression.
“Sure. Black, one sugar.” She leaned over to get her wallet and noticed her toenails. She had meant to cover the chips with a fresh coat of blue polish. Oh, well.
“I’ll get it.” He walked off.
A red packet was on the carpet below his jacket. She put her tablet down on the little table between her and the next seat, walked over, and picked it up. D’Addario Guitar Strings. She placed it on the worn suede jacket, under the sleeve but visible, and went back to her notes.
                                                                                ************
          “I stopped at a hand sanitizer.”
She nearly dropped her tablet this time. “You need a bell!”
“Sorry.” He was in a seat, reaching across his guitar to place her coffee on the little table. “One of my nicknames growing up was Sneak. But you seem a little edgy.”  
          “Maybe.” She noticed his long, slender fingers and wondered if that was good for playing guitar. Her mother’d always said it helped with playing the piano. She picked up the cup and went to remove one side of her mask, but the loop was tangled in her hair. She put the cup back down. Masks were proving to be a challenge. She’d given up trying to control her hair long ago, but masks weren’t optional. Her hair was dark red, dark enough it was hard to see the red unless she was in the sun. The kind of red hair that’s big and ends up in long twirls unless you comb or brush it which only makes it a bigger, frizzy mess. She tried to free first one side of her mask, then the other, finally getting one, then a sip of coffee. She looked his way. He was watching her. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. Thanks.”
“You have a lot of hair.” He turned away, removed his mask with one hand, took a sip, and turned his face toward her, pausing, then going on, “I knew how much I needed it.” Leaning forward, he put his forearms on his thighs and held the coffee between his knees. He was not unattractive, in an angular, ascetic kind of way — prominent cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and the dark eyes.
He’d bought her coffee, so she figured she should try to be sociable. “Have you come a long way?”
“Not today. Just from my apartment. But I’ve been traveling. Got in late. You?”
“This is my third airport since five this morning.”
“Sounds like you’ve come a long way. Got somebody in Duluth?” He sipped.
“I wish. I have no idea what I’m doing next.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked over at the clock. “I’d say you have about an hour and a half to figure something out.” Just then, an agent walked up to the check-in desk. 
 “Do you think they’ll take us, if it’s only us?”
“I don’t know. Probably depends on whether they need to get a plane to Duluth, for commuters. I guess we’ll see. I’ve never had this flight cancel.”
“You’ve done this before?”
He nodded, swallowing a sip of coffee. “Every four . . . six months or so. I’ve got family all around Duluth . . . and this time, I’m staying . . . a while. I figure I’m safer up there than most anywhere.”
“Me, too.”
The PA system came on. “Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 2514 to Duluth. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you.” The agent looked in their direction and shrugged. “If you guys are ready, you can board.”
They gathered their belongings. He noticed the strings and looked over at her, but she was putting her tablet away. As she passed him, he said, “I’m Robby.”
She replied, “Oh . . . Grace.”
 

About the Author

 

 Jan Merritt lives on the coast of South Carolina with strong ties to northern Minnesota where her dad was born. Her early life was filled with rich, but conflicting narratives. On the one hand, her dad regaled her with pioneering stories from Minnesota: Merritt boys tramping through tamarack swamps and the Northwoods, learning from their Ojibwe neighbors; surviving -60° winters; and the saga of her great-grandfather leading them to discover iron ore on the Mesabi Range only to lose that mining fortune to John D. Rockefeller in a New York City courtroom. But on the other hand, Jan’s education in an elite private girls’ school in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, led her into a privileged, old South social set she wasn’t born into, one with a different set of values. These opposing values simmered in Jan’s head.

She grew up passionate about teaching, both in the classroom and on horses. She married and had a family. Life was good, but it came to a halt when she discovered by accident that she had brain cancer. She has survived, but after the surgeries and treatments, her brain is not the same. She can’t ride or teach school, but her new brain is busy. It creates conversations. One night toward the end of Covid, Jan gave up trying to sleep and decided to write down what the people were saying … maybe if she got the chatter out of her head, she could sleep. It didn’t work but she hasn’t stopped writing. Jan has a new passion.

 

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PROMO: Egyptian Lovers

 

Dark Paranormal Romance

Date Published: July 31, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

In the desert sands of Egypt, three lovers battle a maniacal curse. Only their love can save them.

 

Half vampire, half sphinx, Kahma roams the deserts of Egypt, praying for death -- until his lost love returns, reincarnated as archeologist Emma Bonham. But to fulfill the passion Kahma offers, Emma must part with her life.

Fascinated by the tale of Emma Bonham’s disappearance some eighty years ago, Carson Bonham comes to Egypt to unravel the mystery. But the bloody carnage of Karnak’s history has a way of repeating itself. The struggle to keep Carson alive will be a death defying act for the powerful vampire Sopdet.

Alexis Peters has no intention of returning to Egypt, until a mysterious dream lover promises endless pleasure if she will just return to him. Little does Alexis know she’s bound to her Egyptian savior, the legendary sphinx, Amenhotep…

 

Publisher's Note: Egyptian Lovers Box Set contains the previously released novellas Kahma, Sopdet, and Ardeth & Amenhotep.

 

Excerpt from Kahma

Abydos, Egypt
November 1926

Emma Bonham moaned and writhed with Corey Dunham's head between her thighs and his strong hands holding her against his busy mouth. His tongue speared deep into her moist opening, thrusting like a cock and she moaned again, but more for his benefit than from the pleasure she couldn't focus on. Slurping, wet noises filled Emma's small tent as she played along, trying to relax into a good fuck.

She just couldn't.

Emma closed her eyes and sighed blissfully at what she hoped were believable intervals as Corey's tongue fucked her. It was so hard to focus. Her mind had been spinning since they'd finally reached Abydos that evening, the most sacred site in all of Egypt.

Abydos. Emma had spent much of her life longing to see the ancient necropolis and the famous tombs there. Tombs of ancient kings, temples of ancient gods.

Her hips left the ground as Corey's fingers played with her half-swollen clit. Corey did have nice hands and fingers and he knew just what to do with them. He'd been her lover for several months now. They'd met when he'd joined the expedition that her Aunt Elspeth coordinated back in London. Corey had been on a few expeditions to Egypt before, though his experience wasn't vast. He had more than enough experience in bed for Emma, who'd had no experiences before Corey. Emma had been as curious about sex as everything else, perpetual student that she was and Corey more than satisfied her curiosity on a number of carnal acts. She was attracted to him, trusted him.

Emma wasn't in love with Corey by any means. She liked him immensely. Corey was an attentive, considerate lover and Emma enjoyed their lovemaking.

Normally.

"You taste so damn good, Emma." Corey slid a finger into her pussy to replace his darting tongue. "I want you to come for me."

The heavy canvas of the tent rippled as the strong winds whipped around it in the desert beyond. It was just one more thing to break Emma's concentration. She began to wonder if a sandstorm was coming. Emma also wondered if she'd ever see a sandstorm. Emma could play along and fake it but she didn't want to do that to Corey. Sighing, Emma pulled herself up, surprising Corey enough that he pulled his fingers from her sheath. Before she could say anything, a desperate cry ripped open the tranquility of the night.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The frantic male cry had Corey, who was mostly dressed, on his feet and Emma scrambling to find her discarded robe. Pulling it on as fast as she could, Emma stayed right on Corey's heels as he sped out of the tent. Naked beneath the robe she held tightly to herself and with her hair flying wildly about her, Emma struggled to keep up with him as he raced toward the tent of Alan Burns, the expedition leader and her friend. The rest of their group had already gathered there.

Peering over the shoulder of Alice Henderson, one of the artists in their expedition, Emma spotted the group's writer kneeling over Alan's unmoving body in the sand. Frantically, Daniel Woods pressed his fingers to Alan's throat, searching for signs of life.

"He's dead," Daniel announced, his face stricken.

A bolt of shock and fear shot through Emma. Alan was dead? How could that be? Emma was as fond of the kind older gentleman as her Aunt Elspeth. If not for him, Emma's aunt would never have allowed her to go on the expedition. Her aunt's confidence in Alan Burns and his vast knowledge of Egypt and all its sites had won out in the end. That and the man's solemn promise to her aunt that he'd watch over Emma and keep her safe.

Tears stung the back of Emma's eyes. This is horrible.

Alice started to sob quietly in front of Emma while Corey pushed his way past the others and into the tent. Emma watched as Corey joined Daniel in searching the fallen man's body for any clues as to what had killed him. The wind ripped at Emma's robe and hair from where she stood just outside the tent as tears slid down her face. Holding her breath just like the others, she waited.

Corey's features turned hard and he pointed to the older man's ankle.

"What is it?" Emma called out to Corey.

Corey seemed not to hear her at first. He started searching the sand around him, his eyes round and filled with alarm.

"A snake bite." Corey's green eyes met Emma's. "It looks like an asp bite. What an asp is doing out here, I don't know. They usually stick to the shrubs and hillsides. They are not desert dwellers."

"Perhaps it got into Alan's bags in Cairo," Daniel suggested.

Corey nodded. "It's possible."

"Dear God in Heaven." Alice, with her stout little body, took a step back and bumped into Emma. "It could still be here."

All eyes flew to the ground, searching the sand in the dim light provided by the fires that burned inside the circle of their tents.

"Watch your step." Corey's voice took on a more authoritative tone as he met the eyes of each of the remaining members of the group in turn. "Be mindful of this. Check your blankets before you go to sleep and check your clothing before you put it on. Reach into your bags with caution."

Dashing out of the tent and to her side, Corey gently took Emma's arm. "I'll see you to your tent."

With Alan gone, Corey had to take charge now. Emma easily read the tension in the hard set of his face, felt it in the hand that lightly gripped her arm. Corey was older than her, but still young, only in his late twenties. He'd never led an expedition before. He'd told her that he'd never been to Abydos before either. All that considered, he still had more experience in exploring Egypt than anyone else in the group.

Corey gently turned her to face him when they reached her tent. With gentle fingers, he brushed at the tears on her face.

"I am sorry about Alan." Corey pulled her into his arms, holding her against his hard, warm body. "I wish I could stay here with you, but I can't. I, at least, want to know where you are and that you're safe. Emma, be careful and try to get some rest."

Emma was vaguely aware of his hands smoothing her hair, the warm kisses he dropped on her head. She didn't even care that he was holding her in such a familiar way in plain sight of the others. Surely, they had to know Corey was her lover by now.

Yet, so many emotions gripped her heart with a tightly closed fist. She'd just lost a dear friend. If that weren't bad enough, they'd also lost the one person in the expedition who'd been to Abydos before and knew how to get back. How to survive here...

What will become of us now?

Corey pulled back to gaze down into her face, his expression grave. "Go to your tent now, Emma. Try to rest."

Emma nodded, not envying Corey the position in which he now found himself. Now he was responsible for the remaining six expedition members: three artists, a writer, an organizer and Emma.

�"What will we do now?" Emma gently brushed a lock of his brown hair from his creased forehead.

"First we have to take care of Alan," Corey explained. "We'll talk about the rest in the morning."

Brushing her lips with the lightest of kisses, Corey turned and headed back to the dead man's tent. Emma watched him, her heart heavy in her chest.

An image of Alan Burns' gentle smile flashed in her mind. When he smiled he had always reminded her of her father who'd died when she was just a child. He had taken on the role of father figure to Emma as she'd gotten to know him over the years. She was going to miss Alan, and Aunt Elspeth would be devastated when she learned of his death.

Little chance she'd get any rest this night.

A strong wind blew Emma off balance before she could enter her tent, stinging her skin lightly with grains of sand. She stumbled but didn't fall as the air whistled around her body in the strangest way.

Being a native of London, Emma was used to cold winds that chilled a person to their bones and made them shiver for hours. This was something else entirely. This wind was hot and moved across her skin like a lover's hand, touching her. That was the only way to describe it. A warm rush of wind penetrated the thin fabric of her robe and blew between her thighs, causing her own intimate scent to rise up and fill the air around her. Emma gasped at the unexpected way her body responded as the wind moved all about her, the way her clit began to throb. Emma's nipples beaded hard and her skin tingled all over her body.

Then Emma heard a gentle voice on the wind as the air swirled around the sensitive flesh of her throat, blew through her hair. A deep male voice.

Senin.

As quickly as the wind had risen it was gone, leaving Emma standing there shaken and lost just outside of her tent. Had she just imagined that? Was her mind playing tricks on her in her grief?

Or had the wind really coveted her body like a lover?

Pulling the thin robe tightly about herself, Emma climbed into her tent and willed her limbs to stop shaking.

 

 

About the Author

Isabella Jordan is the alter ego of an otherwise stressed out web designer, programmer, and internet junkie. When she's not trying to perfect her own personal caffeine IV drip, she enjoys spending time with her family, doing volunteer work, and writing. She loves creating new stories of all kinds and chatting with readers and friends.

Isabella would love to hear from her readers!

 

Author Website

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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Blog Tour: IYSH

 

Fiction

Date Published: 04-17-2025

In 1940, Leo Butlion, a young Jew studying to be a medical doctor in Koblenz, Germany, has his future plans disrupted when Nazi forces destroy his family and their business. His heroic escape and commitment to survive drive him to overcome the greatest test man could ever encounter. Ivy Jacobson, a deformed yet highly talented fashion designer, works in a textile factory in Liege, Belgium that is ransacked by Nazi invaders. She escapes their brutality and meets Leo. Leo explains the Hebrew word IYSH which means "champion" and together they agree to persevere and champion the cause no matter how difficult it becomes. Their heroism and tenacity unfold in dramatic fashion as they are captured, separated and sent to concentration camps where their future survival is unclear. The story develops from WWII until the Yom Kippur War in 1973 which takes place in Israel.

Excerpt

A week later, as roll call is coming to an end, a woman standing close to Ivy begins coughing and heaves clots of blood that splash onto the white frost at her feet. She is so weak she struggles to stay on her feet. She staggers for a moment and then stumbles forward onto the woman in front of her. The weak, sick woman has no strength left, and falls backwards onto Ivy. Ivy instinctively reaches forward to catch her, but is late in getting to her. The weight of the sick woman falls directly onto Ivy’s left arm. As Ivy catches her, she feels the leather strap snap under the woman’s weight. The prosthesis falls to the ground, making a crunching noise as it hits the frost.

Ivy’s first reaction is to camouflage the prosthesis lying on the ground, and she falls onto it, pulling the woman on top of her. “Karen, help me,” is Ivy’s desperate call. Karen notices the whole event, and reacts quickly by falling on top of the two women. A guard pushes his way past the rest of the women, and storms towards them, “Get up! This is no place to lie down!” The rasping command spreads fear into the three women lying on the frost.

They don’t look at the guard and Karen tries to crawl over Ivy and reach for the prosthesis. However, the guard notices the straps sticking out from under the sick woman’s waist. As Karen picks it up, the guard sticks his huge black military boot out and tramples her fingers into the frost. She screams with pain, but does not let go of the thongs, hoping she can hide the prosthesis and the thongs under Ivy and the sick woman. Karen kicks at the guard’s knee high boots, and he doesn’t feel anything. She is trying to distract his attention and allow Ivy to hide the prosthesis.

“What’s this?” The guard kneels down looking at the thongs, and pulls them towards him. He stands up and holds the prosthesis shoulder high. Bewilderment is the first expression he portrays and then a smirk filters over his face. He looks directly at Ivy who lies on the cold frost. She rolls over face down onto the frost

and starts sobbing, knowing that after all she had been through, she has now been found out. Karen crawls towards her on all fours, leans over her, and tries to console her. “Ivy, we must be strong, they won’t hurt us. Be strong, please.” Karen knows she is talking to herself as well, and that the words are futile. This has to be the end for both women.

“Get up!” shouts the guard as he kicks Ivy and Karen. He leaves the sick woman who is unable to move, blood still pouring out of her mouth as she coughs. “I said get up! Are you also deaf, woman!” The statement cuts into Ivy’s heart like a sharp, piecing hot iron.

Karen is the first one on her feet, and she leans over to help Ivy. The guard reacts with a swift thrust of his right arm against Karen’s back that sends her crashing to the ground. “She can get up on her own! Let’s see her do it.” Turning to Ivy, he shouts hysterically at her, “Get up, woman, or must I shoot you now!” Ivy gets to her knees and falls again. Her strength is sapped by fear and anguish. By now, fear and heartache flood both their hearts. For Ivy, it is all over. Surely they will kill me is all she can think of. Oh, why did this have to happen now? She shakes on her feet as she sobs, cradling the left stump in her right hand. Why God, why? The guard grabs Karen by the neck, and pushes her brutally towards the back of the ranks. “We will teach you to betray the Wehrmacht, slut. There is only one way to teach you a lesson, and everyone else!” By now, the guard is so angry at the fact that a woman has concealed her prosthesis from the army, he is prepared to vent this on Karen.

The matron, who is standing on the platform, doesn’t care what the guard does to Karen. Then she points to Ivy, who is still on her knees trying to get up, and commands another guard in a callous fashion, “Bring me that heap of misery!” Ivy is terrified. Her body shakes as she tries to walk through the prisoners towards the matron. As she reaches the platform, Ivy stands in front of the matron, her head is down looking at the ground because she is unable to face her executioner.

“So, you have been hiding this from us all this time!” The words slam into Ivy’s heart as she stands shaking, knowing that this is to be her impromptu trial. “How long have you been like this?” Ivy cannot bring herself to reply. Through the tears, she looks up at the matron.

The matron struts to her desk and drops into the chair. She pays no attention to Ivy, who stands in front of her shaking. Ivy has no control over her emotions anymore, and the anxiety and terror that encases her heart causes her to soil herself. She stands in front of the matron still holding her left stump in her right hand.

Ivy’s fate is in the hands of this plump round-faced matron who, during the years at the camp, has never showed mercy to anyone. Surely Ivy’s punishment will be worse than Karen’s. Oh, God, please help me, I am this way because of you, please God, please, begs Ivy under her breath as she stands trembling from fear.

“How long have you been like this?” inquires the matron for the second time. Ivy tries to straighten up, and she wipes the tears from off her checks. Then she reaches down to her torn dress, and uses it to wipe her nose. She croaks out the words, “Since birth.”

“Then how in tarnation did you get into this camp, and hide this from us all the time!” The matron explodes in anger and slams her fist on the desk as she speaks at the top of her voice. “Do you know what they do to deformed people in the Third Reich?” The question thunders in Ivy’s ears. She knows all too well what happens to them, and she realizes that this is the eventual road she will have to go once the matron is finished with her.

It is too much for Ivy, and her knees cave in under the mental pressure, and she leans forward to hold onto the desk as the gravity of the situation swoops over her.

“Do you know that I have no choice but to follow orders and shoot you?” The uncouth matron, who shows no pity on Ivy, mouths the death knell. With the emptiness of a hangman, she speaks them to Ivy, as if to say, you are done for. “Please, Matron, please,” says Ivy as she sobs, desperately pleading for her life to be spared. She can get nothing else out. Her throat dries up, and her mind is swimming as the overpowering fear avalanches its way into her heart. She falls to her knees under the strain and pressure and hangs onto the edge of the desk, breaking out into a heart wrenching sob.

“Adjutant, get in here!” shouts the matron. This must be the final decision for Ivy, as she realizes she will now be dragged out to the courtyard and shot in front of the other prisoners. She tries to stand up and face the last few minutes of her life with at least some dignity.

The adjutant walks briskly to the matron’s desk and stands to attention, waiting his instructions. To her amazement Ivy hears the words, “Get me this woman’s file.” The adjutant pulls at Ivy’s right arm, and looks at her number, does an about face, walks out of the office, and returns a few minutes later with a brown manila file.

The matron reaches for the file and casually flips it open. Her eyes fall on a letter addressed to her from Captain Willem Langford in the Textile factory in Berlin where Ivy has worked. A frown creases her brow as she holds the letter towards the light.

The matron drops the letter on her desk and speaks to Ivy in a condescending manner, “You seemed to be of some use to this Captain Langford, what did you get up to there? I suppose you were more than a designer, or do I read this incorrectly?” Ivy is insulted by the remark, and for the first time she stares at the matron, this time in indignation. “I don’t know what you mean. I did what I was told, and that’s all.” She gathers enough courage to make her next point very

clear, “Contrary to your thinking, Captain Langford is an honorable man, and a fine officer. As for me, I’m your prisoner, and have never been abused by him.”

“Captain Langford, this is Matron Von Eck at Ravensbruck Concentration Camp.”

“Yes, Matron, what can I do for you?” Langford is cordial and to the point. “I want you to think back to when you had a prisoner working for you. Her name was Jacobson, she was…”

The matron can say no more as Langford immediately interrupts her. “Yes, I remember her, Matron. She did the Wehrmacht excellent service, even as a prisoner.” There is a moment of silence before Langford speaks again. “Matron, it was the last day she worked for us. The moment I found out she had one hand, I sent her back to you. This was also the day that General Gruber visited the factory, and gave us orders to start a new production line for the next phase for the war. It was when I was discussing the new designs with her that I found out she was deformed.”

Langford uses his superior rank on the matron and reacts to her question, “I wrote to you the day I transferred her back to you. How come you are calling me now about this woman?” The question is direct and places the matron on the defensive.

“Something has come up, and she is involved in it. I needed to get clarification from you.” Her answer is evasive and almost works.

Langford again decides to use his rank, and in an unprecedented manner, commands the matron. “I will need her very soon again. In fact I am looking for workers with such talent right now, and instructing you to do nothing with her. I will contact you within the month, and arrange her transfer back to this factory. Is that understood?”

The matron has no choice but to obey the officer who is much higher in rank than her. She also realizes that there is nothing she can do to Ivy. That is her instruction, and she had better take care of Ivy, or she will be held accountable by her superiors if anything happens to her.

The matron replaces the receiver, scowls as she shuffles the papers back into Ivy’s folder, and bellows, “Jacobson, get back in here, now!”

As Ivy walks back into the office expecting to hear her death sentence, to her amazement, Ivy hears the matron growl at her as she struggles to say, “Return to your barrack. Let me be clear on this, if you ever flaunt your deformity to anyone, or on any guard, I will personally take great delight in punishing you. Do you hear me?”

Ivy does not answer her. She turns around and walks out of the office. As she leaves, she looks up at the sky. It is grey and miserable that morning. But, now there is a ray of sunshine peeping through a gap in the clouds. She takes hold of her left arm and says through the tears of relief, “IYSH”.

About the Author

 

 Greg Price is a writer, human resource expert and an ordained minister. He has traveled extensively throughout the world and shares his experiences by translating them into literary characters who inspire and motivate the reader. Greg immigrated to the United States from south Africa and currently lives with his wife in Mississippi.

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Blog Tour: Twin Flames

 

Sons of Sin MC

MC Romance

Date Published: 02-24-2026

Publisher: Evernight Publishing

The Sons of Sin Motorcycle Club are a force to be reckoned with. Led by Saint and his twin brother, Sinner, their bond is unbreakable. They run the Cheyenne Chapter with respect and unwavering allegiance.

What starts out a lucrative deal with a rival club suddenly erupts into chaos when shots are fired, and the money mysteriously disappears. Frustration and suspicion fester because it becomes very clear that there is a traitor amongst them.

Across the street, Kira is an unwilling witness, and she knows where the money has been hidden. Terrified, she returns it, but her actions spark Saint’s mistrust, and he orders Sinn to keep a watchful eye on her.  A fragile bond begins to form, woven from threads of shared trauma. The line between loyalty and betrayal is razor thin. Can three seemingly different souls find healing from their intertwined destinies?

 

Excerpt

“Hello, there,” came a butter-smooth voice. “Haven’t seen you before.”

Kira turned. The man who talked was tall and ruggedly good looking. Not as handsome as Sinn, but she figured there weren’t too many men that could hold a candle to him. Not that she cared or anything. Why did this club have so many good-looking guys?

“And you’ll not likely to see me ever again. Can you point out where Sinn would be?”

The man narrowed his eyes as he studied her. She made sure to not blink as she stared him down, making sure not to show any weakness. Never again would she show any sign of fear or compassion to a man. Two things that had once been her downfall.

As if making up his mind, the man tilted his chin toward a door behind him. “He’s in the office with his brother.”

Cautiously, she followed him, maintaining an arm length between them. She didn’t like the clubhouse, didn’t like the feel of it. It reminded her too much of that night. Kira didn’t shy away from thinking about all the pain and suffering she had endured because it was a reminder not to trust anyone.

The man stopped in front of a door, knocked, then opened it when he was given permission. Kira stepped into the room, twisting a little to make sure her back wasn’t left vulnerable. At first glance, she saw that Sinn sat behind a desk, only…

“You’re not Sinn,” she stated.

The obvious clone raised an eyebrow. “I’m not?”

They looked the same, sounded the same, and yet the look in his eyes was completely different. Ruthlessness lay in the arctic freeze of his gaze that held a hint of ugliness. Or perhaps the menacing glare was simply disdain. He perused her up and down, turning her blood cold. If they tried to get the drop on her, she’d be more than happy to show she was no longer a damsel in distress.

Then a toilet flushed, and a moment later a door behind the clone opened. Sinn patted his hands on a paper towel when their gazes met. His dimples flashed when he smiled, obviously thinking she came to take him up on his offer.

“There you are.”

He tossed the used paper towel into the trash then opened his arms wide. “Here I am. Although I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I was sure I was gonna have to start stalking you at work.”

“Don’t,” she said emphatically. “Or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

“Somebody sounds grumpy.” He nudged the clone. “Just like you, actually.”

“Fuck off,” Not-Sinn said, then he addressed her. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” she countered.

Sinn laughed. “Kira, this is my brother, Saint. Saint, this is Kira.”

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “I read that on her uniform, but who is she?”

Her thought earlier that no man could hold a candle to Sinn disappeared into the ether. “Saint and Sinn?”

“Sinner, actually.” He seemed to smile a lot, if the crinkles by his eyes were any indication. “Mom was either stoned or drunk, or possibly even both, when she named us. She had a flair for the dramatic. Brother, this is the young lady I told you about from the diner.”

“Yeah, again, I got that from her uniform.” Saint studied her like she was a bug under a microscope. “Are you here to become club ass or something? You saw Sinn and thought he’d date you?”

She should’ve known that was what they were going to assume. “I’m here to return your money.” She pulled the duffel out of the shopping bag.

The humor fled Sinn as he and Saint’s gaze zeroed in on the duffel. 

 

About the Author

 

I’m passionate about weaving tales of romance and connection, inviting readers into worlds where love conquers all. Crafting heartfelt stories and steamy scenes that make the pulse race, as well as taking readers on swoon-worthy adventures. I try to weave emotions into my stories that punch you in the gut because I love stories that break your heart before putting it back together. I try to write characters who aren't cookie cutters and push myself to write complicated situations that I have no idea how to resolve, forcing me to think outside the box. I strive to create characters who are complex and full of flaws. Deep passion romance between heroes and heroines who find redemption through love.

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PROMO: Uprising

 

Book One of the Fitzjohn Duology

Historical Fiction with Speculative and Romantic Elements

Date Published: 09-01-2026

Publisher: Literary Wanderlust

England, 1381 AD: Blanche Fitzjohn is an outcast in her small coastal village. Not only is she the illegitimate daughter of John of Gaunt, the man responsible for her neighbors’ over-taxation, but she possesses strange abilities: hearing sound from miles away and smelling people’s emotions.

She takes solace in her studies with the local wisewoman and in her friendship with Geoff, a groom at the local manor. Until the day Henry of Lancaster, Blanche’s half-brother, brings her news of an arranged marriage to Sir Thomas Prescott, Constable of the Tower of London. Although she smells cruelty on him, Blanche agrees to marry Thomas in the hopes that her influence may help better the lives of Geoff and all England’s villeins.

But soon, the peasants’ discontent turns to revolt. Though her heart is of the people, Blanche’s nobility makes her an enemy to the rebels. To save herself and Henry from the executioner’s ax, Blanche must use every power at her disposal, even those she once considered a curse.

Chapter Six Excerpt

 

Something shifts, like summer’s green leaves transforming to autumnal gold. Speaking with Geoff about my marriage hurts like I’d never expected, a deep ache. The moon thrums, and an owl, perched in a nearby tree, shifts as she searches for prey. My temples throb.

“It seemed…” he begins again. “It seemed he didn’t want to marry you, after you…” I glare and cross my arms before lifting my face. He continues: “I thought perhaps you could get out of it because…”

“Because of what?”

“Because, ye’re…”

“What, Geoff, what am I?”

His mouth opens like a fish above water, and he doesn’t bother to shut it. In the tree, the owl flaps her wings and leaps into the air.

“Ye’re…” The tips of Geoff’s fingers flutter. “Well, I don’t know what you are, Dandy. Ye’re just…yerself. And I thought—”

“You thought he wouldn’t want me?”

His face falls. “He’s not like you, Dandy. That’s all. He’s not a good man. I heard him talking, when it was just the men…”

He drops his eyes and his cheekbones redden.

Neither of us seems to know what to say next. After a full minute of silence, he lurches forward and grasps my shoulders, crushing me to his chest. “Blanche, just consider.”

I gasp and have to steady myself. But within seconds, tears come to my eyes, along with a calming release of tension. I grip his forearms, inhale his familiar scent. He’s always smelled of horses, with a hint of bread dough and sugar from the manor kitchens he’s constantly raiding. There’s something different tonight. I sniff. It’s crisp, yet soft. Evergreens in winter, covered with fresh snow.

He buries his nose in my hair. “You could refuse,” he says, voice a gentle rumble against my face, “and stay with yer mother. She’d be angry, yes, but she wouldn’t throw you out. They can’t drag you to the church. For a marriage to be real, you must consent.”

Consent. The word ripples through me. It makes me see that I want more, from Maman, from my father, but most of all from Geoff. I need something I can’t identify, something I can’t express.

“If I marry Thomas…” My muffled voice breaks. “It will make the duke happy. He’ll…” I tense, regretting my words.

“He’ll what?”

I can’t answer, can’t tell him that by marrying Sir Thomas, I hope to earn my father’s love. To replace…something.

The moon moves behind a cloud and the trees shift, branches releasing a shower of rain. Geoff drops one hand to the small of my back and lifts the other to my cheek. His palms are warm, and I slide my own to clench his upper arms. When my fingertips brush hardened muscles, I almost snatch my hands back. Before tonight, I still thought of Geoff as a child, the lanky villein who could ride any horse, no matter how fierce. Now…my mouth goes dry, but I can’t resist running my hands up the length of his arms, letting them rest on his shoulders. The skin beneath his tunic is damp with sweat.

Corded muscles tense and stretch beneath my fingers, sending little jolts through me. He stoops, chin brushing my temple.

I touch the notch of his throat with my fingertips. He freezes. Tiny curls of dark hair peek above his collar, tickling my fingers. He lets his face linger on mine, and I feel him inhale.

A pleasant warmth spreads through my belly, then down. Something’s happening, something I don’t understand. I should run, should leave. But I don’t. Another breeze drifts through the tree branches, and he pulls me closer, pressing me to him.

I feel him, all of him, from feet to chin, in a way I never have. A tingling, heavy warmth settles on me, and I feel Geoff’s own need pressing against my belly.

It should make me uncomfortable, but I find myself pressing back, wanting more. Wanting it all.

I’m not well-versed in what happens between a woman and a man—that’s one area of my education Maman neglected—but I’m not completely ignorant. I know Geoff and I stand on a cliff, gazing into a deep ravine. One more step, and we’ll both be lost.

I’m still touching his throat, suspended in our odd dance beneath the shuddering tree branches, when he bends further. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation of his stubbly chin against my face. He exhales, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“Dandy…” he murmurs.

The owl swoops to snatch a mouse from the forest floor in sharp talons. Her screech is like a battle horn, ricocheting with painful deliberation in my skull, joined by the mouse’s squeal. My eyelids snap open and I step out of his embrace.

 

About the Author

 

 J.E. Rizzo is a life-long history fanatic and writer of historical fiction, and her work can be found in Vanity Fair, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, The Tudor Times, Tudor Life Magazine, Scary Mommy, and Ultrarunning Magazine. Rizzo won Manuscript Academy’s Agent Choice Award in 2024, and her article Past and Precedence: Abortion Law in the Middle Ages and Its Use to Overturn Roe v. Wade won History Inquiry’s Medieval History Writing Challenge.

By day, Rizzo works in Human Resources—a field offering more than ample opportunity to observe the follies and fancies of humankind. Before her career in HR, Rizzo worked as an opera singer, a professional baker, and a dog walker. These days, when not writing she can be found running ultramarathons through the forests and mountains of New England, knitting, reading, sewing, baking, or performing any number of (what some might call) old-lady hobbies. She also keeps busing caring for her two children and forty-seven houseplants, making her husband carry heavy things and cook her gourmet meals, and rehabilitating her rescue dog and semi-feral ginger cat.

 

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