Monday, January 26, 2015

Guest Blog and Kindle Voyage Giveaway with J Tullos Hennig

Green Man

It has been chiselled into cathedral columns and sewn into lavish tapestries.  It has been carved into wooden lintels and misericords, sculpted in stone to protect castle gatehouses, has grinned or scowled at us from walkways and garden gates.  Both male and female—and some in-between—sometimes cheerful, sometimes grotesque... always evocative.

It has become known as the Green Man.

But the Green Man is more than these numerous and specific representations.  He is of us.  From Neolithic times to the Victorian era, crowned with horns or tressed with foliage, the Green Man has been there, peeking from the corners of our subconscious.  For all the arguments about what He is and isn’t, one thing is clear: He characterises an oft-fierce and irrepressible life, symbolises our own longings for a verdant, natural world.  He is life, and nature.

It is an incarnation that Robin Hood was born to take on.

Indeed, there are many theories (and theories of this particular archer abound, believe me!) that wild Robin was indeed born from tree spirits and misted glens.  That he dances a spiral over the fecund earth, the lord of misrule who dares the wilderness both as the aspect of the Winter’s Holly King and the Summer’s Oak King, evenly matched and embattled.

In my own particular re-imagining within the Books of the Wode, Robyn Hode is wildly akin to that shadowy, leaf-crowned and horned figure, a trickster quite at home in the deeps of primordial forest.  He is avatar to the natural forces, a wild god taking aim at fate with the push of a longbow and the release of an arrow dressed with peacock tufts—the symbol of an ever-watchful goddess.  He has his men beside him, and his Maiden—only this time the Queen of the Shire Wode is his sister, with her own fate and strength and choices.  Robyn instead finds his heart in another direction, and with a theological twist only a stroppy dissident could come up with, Robyn swears he’ll defend the sacred space of the Shire Wode to his last breath—if his god will let him be a lover, not a fighter, to the nobleman’s son who is fated to wear the Oak crown to Robyn’s Holly, as his archenemy.  Seeking change, before the old magics are forever strangled silent.

But then, the Green Man breeds change, makes fertile the imagination and oversees the seasonal cycles, guards with fierce leers the gates to both heaven and hell—so, too, is Robyn a symbol of fertile growth.  He disappears into the safe and treacherous haven of the forest—a trickster, sure—but overall, a survivor.  When we most long for a way back, a reconnection with the power of nature, there he is, with two upthrust fingers for the powers that be.  Sedition, and significance.  Green is the colour of balance, so it is no coincidence that the Green Man—or His best-loved avatar, Robyn Hood—would supply both haven and havoc in a world wildly out of kilter.

He always reappears, just when we need him most.

Book One of The Wode
J Tullos Hennig

Genre: Historical Fantasy, Robin Hood

Publisher: DSP Publications

Date of Publication: Oct. 28, 2014

ISBN: 978-1-63216-437-7 Paperback
ISBN: 978-1-63216-438-4 eBook

Number of pages:  350
Word Count: 151,000
Cover Artist: Shobana Appavu

Book Description:

The Hooded One.  The one to breathe the dark and light and dusk between....

When an old druid foresees this harbinger of chaos, he also glimpses its future.  A peasant from Loxley will wear the Hood and, with his sister, command a last, desperate bastion of Old Religion against New.  Yet a devout nobleman's son could well be their destruction—Gamelyn Boundys, whom Rob and Marion have befriended.  Such acquaintance challenges both duty and destiny. The old druid warns that Rob and Gamelyn will be cast as sworn enemies, locked in timeless and symbolic struggle for the greenwode's Maiden.

Instead, a defiant Rob dares his Horned God to reinterpret the ancient rites, allow Rob to take Gamelyn as lover instead of rival. But in the eyes of Gamelyn’s Church, sodomy is unthinkable... and the old pagan magics are an evil that must be vanquished.

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Readers love

Winner in the 2013 Rainbow Awards: First: Best LGBT Novel, Best B/T & LGBT Debut, Best B/T & LGBT Fantasy, Paranormal Romance & Sci-fi / Futuristic

“I loved this story for taking a legend and giving it a twist … I have to recommend this to those who love folklore, mystical legends, historicals, fighting for a love against insurmountable odds, danger, betrayal and an ending that is devastating while giving you faint hope.”
—MM Good Book Reviews

“This is a gutsy twist on a major classic that works.”
—Gerry Bernie

“There is so much good about this book I'm not even sure where to start. … This one is a highly recommended read. Just read it. It blew me away.”
—Better Read Than Dead

“Greenwode is legend. It is epic storytelling. It is fantasy and history. It is religion and spirituality. It is a world in which faith is a weapon, faith is a tool, faith is the enemy, and faith is the last vestige of hope… when there seems nothing left to hope for. If you love epic fantasy, I can’t recommend this book highly enough.”
—The Novel Approach

“I can assure you the weaving of themes and legends in GREENWODE is mesmerizing. … This novel will always be the one against which I will judge all the others.”
—Christopher Hawthorne Moss

“…an interesting, spellbinding read.”
—Rainbow Book Reviews

“I highly recommend this any fan of an epic fantasy with historical settings. It is long but worth it. I can’t wait for the second book to come out.”
—Hearts on Fire Reviews

a Prelude b

In the Deeps of the Shire Wode
1175 ACE

Wind and water, stone and tree….”
Firelight flickered against rock, as if in time to the low melody. Both light and song wavered as they traveled into the depths. Not that the voice was not strong or the fire not warm—the caverns were that deep.
An old man, lean and crystal-eyed, stared into the fire. Every now and then the fire would jerk and start, as if some giant had spat upon it, but the cause was natural enough. Thunder rumbled in the forest above, sending puffs of wind through unknown entrances into the caverns. The old man could hear the stones embedded in the earth above him creak, almost in reply; he tuned his low voice as if in reverent time. Those rocks that formed the circle above him might be a tiny imitation of the ring stones on the plain of Salisbury far to the south, but no less eternal in their observance of the powers that he, too, had served for….
How long had it been? Stubble had scarce grown on his now leathern cheeks when he’d first taken up the mantle of the god. He had put aside his real name when, on a midsummer night not long after King Stephen had taken up another, more politic authority, a peasant gathering had crowned a young man with antlers and cried the god’s name:
Cernunnos. Horned One. Green-Father. Hunter.
Stephen had relinquished his crown to his nephew Henry even as Cernun had groomed his own successor, moving from Hunter to Hermit’s guise. It was the way of things. Shaking a twisted lock of silver from his eyes, Cernun grumbled to himself again, stirring at the fire with a long stick. He was old, but not infirm. The Sight was still strong in him, his body still hale and sound of limb; the forces of nature had rewarded him well for his service. Most men who had seen over fifty winters were bent and aged, senile from hard, miserable lives. The blood of the Barrow-lines ran strong. And he had been lucky.
He could only wish his successor such fortune.
The fire sparked. Cernun leaned closer, scrutinizing the writhing embers, watched them swell then flare white, reaching for the low limestone overhead. Yes? he asked, silent beneath the swell of power. You speak, Lord?
Images assaulted him. He saw what had been: the midsummer madness of dancing and singing, the rejoicing in rites, which, for a short, sweet time, took his people from the harsh reality of toil and hunger. Saw Horned Lord take Lady, clothed in Hunter and Maiden, horns and moon-crown.
Saw children born, Beltain-gotten, and the sweet green Wode prosper. As above, so below.
The fire damped, the vision strayed. Cernun spoke a low, guttural word, grabbed a handful of herbs from the cauldron at his side, and threw them onto the fire. The past was a given—to what future led this vision?
Scented smoke rose. It blossomed, damp cavern mists and heat writhing, tearing into wisps then coalescing.
A scream. The Mother’s face reflecting flames and terror, the woods aflame, and the Horned One on the Hunt. Downed in snow, horns broken, wolves with blooded jaws snapping and snarling….
“No!” Cernun hissed. He caught his breath as more shapes danced in the smoke, dissolving then coalescing….
A cowled figure draws a freakishly long bow, the arrow’s flight swift and sure, to split another arrow already in the black… a sister of the White Christ bends over a kneeling soldier… clad in the red and white of the Temple, he raises his fair head to let her make the sign of the Horns upon his brow… a booted foot stomps the long bow, shattering it….
Cernun blinked, shook his head. It made no sense, none of it. Smoke hissed, twisted into a pair of cowled figures locked in struggle….
One slams the other up against a tree, yanks his head back, and brings a drawn sword against the exposed artery, only to have the sword fall from his hands, to stagger back as if he has seen some demon… or ghost….
Another twist of smoke, and abruptly the flames flared high, gusting char against the old man’s face. He didn’t move, in fact bent forward.
A figure, crouching naked in the fire, a silhouette amidst burning ruins. The fire rises again, a spiral of sound and wind, and the figure rises with it, backlit, stepping barefoot over the coals and extending pale arms as if clothing itself in fire.
And, suddenly, it is. Flames whip, clad and cowl the figure in brilliant scarlet that ebbs to black… then gray-ash rags. Winter blows through, snow hissing in the coals and covering the figure. It walks back and forth, and in its footsteps ice crystals form. Green, sharp-edged leaves unfurl amidst the winter ice, revealing blood-red berries in their depths. The figure turns to him, eyes glowing within its cowl, still pacing, like to a wild animal caged.
Wolf, it says, but does not speak. Witch. Hawk.
Wind gusted through the cavern in a bank of noise and cold. The fire pitched down from copper into indigo, sparks flying, smoke rising.
Cernun did not bother to stir it. Instead he closed his eyes, tried to make sense of what he had seen.
Wolf. The most skilled of hunters, yet hunted throughout the land by another, even more treacherous predator. Or… outlaws were known as wolfshead. Perhaps? But not likely. Cernun would tolerate no outlaw within his covenant.
Witch. What the White Christ’s followers called those who followed the old ways of the heath and Barrow-lines, a calling turned to hatred by outside forces, even as the Romans had done with another naming: Pagani.
Hawk. Proud birds, another hunter/predator forced to perform beneath nobleman’s rule, barely tamed and kept from free flight, jessed, hooded.
“Hooded.” It came out in a soft rush of breath. Not only the hawk but wolf and witch—predators cornered—the struggling figures, the flame-gotten one… all cowled. By fire, by ash, by blood. “Great Lord who lies incarnate in us. Has it come to this?”
He stared at the dying embers, not wanting to believe. But the image persisted.
The one to walk all worlds, to breathe the fates of dark and light and dusk between, male and female; the Arrow of the goddess and the Horns of the god. The champion of the old ways—and the beginning of their ending.
The Hooded One.

About the Author:

J Tullos Hennig has maintained a few professions over a lifetime--artist, dancer, equestrian--but never successfully managed to not be a writer. Ever. Since living on an island in Washington State merely encourages--nay, guarantees--already rampant hermetic and artistic tendencies, particularly in winter, Jen has become reconciled to never escaping this lifelong affliction. Comparisons have also been made to a bridge troll, one hopefully emulating the one under Fremont Bridge: moderately tolerant, but. You know. Bridge troll.

Jen is blessed with an understanding spouse, kids, and grandkids, as well as alternately plagued and blessed with a small herd of horses and a teenaged borzoi who alternates leaping over the furniture with lounging on it.

And, for the entirety of a lifetime, Jen has been possessed by a press gang of invisible ‘friends’ who Will. Not. S.T.F.U.

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Spotlight and Giveaway Toxic Love by Jax Garren

Toxic Love
Jax Garren

Genre: Science Fiction Romance

Publisher: SilkWords

Date of Publication:  July 12, 2014

ISBN: 9781941847015

Number of pages: 187
Word Count:  47,670
Cover Artist: Indie Designz

Book Description: 

Future Las Vegas is as crazy as ever — even after toxic gas bombs have poisoned the air and moved the party  inside.

Hired as an entertainer, Chloe moves from the heartland with big dreams of fame and fortune...until an accident exposes her to the gas, and it's discovered she's genetically immune to the poison.

Now Vegas wants her enrolled in a dating program created to encourage immune breeding.

Will she opt out and return to the rich ex she left behind? Stay and play for the chance at fame on the stage? Or can a gorgeous scientist who's also immune tempt her heart?

Toxic Freefall

Chloe Parikh had never been to Las Vegas. She’d never been skydiving. Hell, she’d never been outdoors, surrounded by the Tox75 poison with only a thin layer of plastic between her and near-instant death. Today was a lot of firsts.
Her heart rate picked up as the clock counted down to the moment the door would open and she’d launch into the sky. Adrenaline made her blood pump and her head rush with a thrill like she’d never experienced in staid Oklahoma City. She was going to like living in Vegas.
No. She was going to love it.
Her tandem master slapped her on the butt as he headed for the closed door of the airplane. “You’ll be fine, sweet-cheeks.”
She stiffened, ready to snap at him. He’d never lay a hand on one of the eight rich kids paying top dollar for this jump. Yeah, she was an entertainer and this trip was paid for by her new employer, but she wasn’t that kind of entertainer.
One look at his amused grin and she bit back the words. Jeremiah, her favorite “brother” and fellow military orphan at the city home she’d grown up in had always said, “Better than fear, anger is.” He might’ve missed Yoda’s point, but pissing her off had been his remedy whenever she got scared, and damn if it hadn’t worked every time. The memory softened her ire.
Maybe Butt Slap the Tandem Man was trying to calm her nerves. Since she was about to have a near-death experience with his genitals strapped to her ass, she decided to go with that theory. No snappy retort then, just an exaggerated eye roll and the pointy finger of warning.
He laughed, friendly-like, before securing his face shield. “Suit up. Time to fly.”
Fear made her palms sweat as she secured her helmet to her vac suit. Once again, she checked the seals running down her front and at her collar. Less than a second of exposure and the only one who could save her was Jesus. With her history she wasn't too sure he'd bother.
She checked the seals a third time.
The crew chief unlocked the cabin door, and her tension ratcheted up, fear competing with exhilaration. Here was another almost-first, one that felt more fundamental than the others, more primal and significant, even if few Americans ever did experience it. She hadn’t been outside in twenty years, since she was three and the air was clean—or at least clean-ish. She barely remembered the feeling.
“Everyone secure?” the crew chief called. Tandem Man rechecked her helmet and suit, gave a thumbs up, and hooked the first line of his harness to hers.
The crew chief released the pressure gauge, counted to three, and opened the door to the blazing sunrise over Las Vegas. The engine’s hum became a storm of noise. Although the wind didn't whip into the cabin like Chloe had expected, the toxic air was still present, mingling with theirs, testing each vac suit for entry. But nobody keeled over, and her shoulders relaxed.
A whistling whine put her back on alert. It was probably normal, nothing to worry about. But Tandem Man motioned forward—hastily? Was he nervous, too? He shouldn't be nervous—and Chloe ambled towards the hatch, each step a clumsy misfire with the man at her back.
The whistling got louder. The closest jumper to the door yanked the straps of his partner's harness, tightening them in careless hurry then flung himself out backward in a fashion not approved by the morning's flying class. A lone jumper launched next, head first.
There was something to worry about.
“Move!” TandemMan yelled as he practically scooped Chloe up.
The whistling stopped.
Light burst outside the door. The cabin shook, and a deafening boom reverberated. She and TandemMan pitched forward, slamming headfirst into the hull and bouncing to the deck. The impact knocked the wind out of her, and she gasped for air, thanking the heavens the helmet had saved her brains.
She tried to stand, but TandemMan wasn't making it easy. “Are you all right?” She shouted over the chaos. “What should I do?”
He scrambled drunkenly—he must've rammed his head a good one—and together they lurched to standing.
“Count to twenty and pull.” He grabbed her hand and clasped it at his back. “Here.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she yelled, praying it was highly unnecessary information but keeping a death grip on the parachute's ripcord anyway.
He stumbled them toward the hatch, and she craned her neck around to see him.
The blood drained from her face and her skin went cold. “Oh my God. Your mask...” is cracked. If poisoned air wasn't seeping in now, it would be any moment. He needed a seal immediately, or he was a dead man. If he wasn’t already.
He pitched them out the door.
Another missile exploded behind the plane, and she screamed in fear and frustration. A shower of sparks sizzled around them as they dove head first away from the dying aircraft.
She started counting.
Wind attacked her with more freezing force than she'd expected as they plummeted toward the bonanza of color and texture that was her new home. “Eighteen, seventeen…”
The flopping weight of her tandem master drifted them horizontally. He wasn’t moving, at least not under his own control. “Thirteen, twelve…”
The plane, away to her left now, barreled toward the mountains as more jumpers flung themselves out in a colorful trail of human confetti. Panic dug at her insides as she fell with a possibly dead man on her back and explosives in the air. “Seven, six…”
War was all she had ever known—her parents had died in it and Jeremiah had enlisted to join it—but there had to be a better way to live than lethal air and sporadic bombings. Maybe she'd ditch performing and marry Eli, her rich ex, if he promised to take her to the Montana Rockies where there were still clean, cold villages high in the mountains.
No, Eli was a non-negotiable. She could steal a boat and smuggle herself to South America, land of clear skies and infinite beauty. Land of plenty and promise. Her grandparents were from India; she could pass for Latino. Or she could in the movies, anyway.
“One.” She pulled the ripcord and the parachute blasted open, yanking their free-fall to a lazy ride. But now she had to do something more complicated than count. They were supposed to end up on The Strip where suited camera crews were waiting to film her arrival. That sort of precision landing might be fine for an expert, but Chloe had a bad feeling her parachute was about to impale itself on the Vegas version of the Eiffel Tower. Sure, she’d paid attention in class but had assumed TandemMan would be doing the tricky parts.
She sucked in a cold breath, steeling herself for the next few minutes. She'd assumed wrong. Alive or dead—God, somehow may he be alive—TandemMan was out for the landing. Whatever happened next was up to her.
A jerk on the toggles turned them away from Paris and toward the Bellagio. A minute later her feet barely crested a railing. TandemMan’s hooked then released. They skimmed the water in front of the erupting fountain to the bombastic notes of Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyries.”
She yanked again on the toggles, trying to do the flaring thing the instructors had talked about. They slowed, and for a moment Chloe walked on water as the fountain cascaded and sang.
The parachute deflated, and they sank. Hoping she correctly remembered which side had the release and which had the spare chute, she pulled on the right of TandemMan's harness. To her relief, the parachute floated away.
Stretching down, the balls of her feet touched the sloped fountain floor. Half sliding, half-dog-paddling, she strained to keep her partner's head above water—not that it would do any good, but she wasn't ready to accept that yet—as she made a grueling path toward the bridge and the horde of cameras and HazMat suits swarming the street.
Welcome to Las Vegas.

About the Author:

Jax Garren, author of hot, urban paranormal romance series Austin Immortals and The Tales of the Underlight, is descended from Valkyries and Vikings (she’s part Swedish) but was raised a small town girl in the Texas Hill Country. She graduated from The University of Texas with a degree in English and a minor in Latin and stayed in Austin to teach high school. During her eight years in public education she was in a riot, broke up fights, had cops storm her class with guns drawn… and met the most amazing young people who taught her more about life and hope than she taught them about any school subject.

Jax believes in heroes and happily-ever-afters. She’s been married thirteen years to a handsome engineer who is saving the world through clean energy technology. They recently became foster parents, leading to more adventures than she can legally discuss. Jax’s fictional heroine is the tough but feminine Marion Ravenwood from Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Jax blames that movie for her lifelong dream of traveling to Nepal. Though Jax has yet to experience Himalayan monasteries and drink yak butter tea—important components of a Nepalese excursion—she loves to travel. Her favorite adventure so far found her in Arctic Norway where she saw the Northern Lights and ate the world’s most delicious slice of apple cake.

Jax can be found at, at or on Twitter as @JCGarren. She loves meeting new people, so online or in person, feel free to give her a Viking “Hail!”


SilkWords is the go-to source for interactive romance and erotic fiction.

With gorgeous custom covers and a clean, sophisticated design, the SilkWords site offers a secure, upscale reading environment. In addition to content on their web site, they offer stories for purchase in the standard e-book formats.

SilkWords is owned and operated by a full-time mom with a background in genetics and an RWA RITA-nominated, multi-published sci-fi romance author.

Their technology guy and site designer was the founder of Microsoft Xbox Live.

SilkWords features two formats that allow readers to choose how the stories will proceed.

Pick Your Path:

Will she or won't she? With which man (or woman) in which location? With Pick Your Path romance, you decide. Romance and branched fiction are made for each other, like picking your favorite flavor of ice cream...positions, partners, and paraphernalia, oh my!

Reader Vote:

Readers vote at choice points and decide how the story will continue. These stories are a great way for readers and authors to connect. It’s exciting to be part of a developing story!

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Spotlight- The Noir Dera: Beacon of Sound by R.M. Garry

The Noir Dera     
Beacon of Sound
R.M. Garry

Genre: Paranormal Romance


Number of pages: 247
Word Count: 86,260

Book Description:

You can fight desire…

Marie DeLou doesn’t want to believe that her life is anything less than perfect. After all, how could it not be? She has a thriving mental health practice and a doting husband who loves her. Still, when a freight train of a man tears through her quiet existence, she has to wonder if things—and people—are not always what they seem to be.

…but there’s no stopping destiny

Prince Patrick Alvang of the Noir Dera has one job to do--to save the Beacon of Light, Marie DeLou, from the danger lurking within her walls. But between her smoking hot body and her equally fiery attitude, his task is a whole lot more difficult than he’d expected. Lucky for him, it looks like the only way to get to the finish line is to play dirty along the way…

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Excerpt: A dance with the devil

Marie felt like throwing a party to commemorate the end of her crazy day. She had one client committed and had to stop another session early in order to get her last client to stop crying.
She changed quickly and was ready for the studio within 10 minutes of her last session. She put her new CD on and fought to get through the Brandon traffic.
Brandon, Florida had traffic at all hours of the day. It was as if the traffic Gods rejected the idea of a peaceful drive through the city.

Once she arrived at her studio, she bolted inside and locked the door. She pulled on her silky, beaded skirt and wrapped it snugly around her waist. She then tied a blue scarf to each wrist and began stretching. She turned on the stereo and let the magic begin. Marie started to relax as the sound of Anoushka Shankar’s sitar filled the small dance space.
She could feel the energy coursing through her body. The music threaded through the empty spaces in her spirit. She spun and danced to ISHQ and felt as if she was flying when “Dancing in Madness” floated out of the speakers.

She spared no expense when it came to her studio. It was a place where art came alive. Art and peace were flowing through her body when she saw someone standing outside the studio.  Doctor Fallen Angel had come to pay her a visit.

Oh, this is surely the devil’s work.

She would not be decent to him. Refusing to pause the music, she released the deadbolt and let him in.

“Dr. Alvang, I want you to know that Marcel has sold you up the river. There is no way you’ll survive this.” She turned and walked to the center of the studio. She wound her hips to "Si No Puedo Verla" and waited for his response. “You will dance and not complain. You have invaded my peace and I will not give you anything until you’re broken by my music.”
Men hated to dance and she was prepared to mop the floor with the good doctor. Marcel was the only man that could keep pace.
Patrick didn’t hesitate. He walked up behind her and grabbed her by the waist. She relaxed into his hold for a split second. They danced like flames leaping to kiss the air.

It was flawless.

She became lost in the pain, pleasure, joy, and seduction of the sitar and the guitars. Patrick touched every inch of her and demanded that her body respond.
She backed away as her leg slid to his waist. He lifted Marie by the waist and positioned her closer. His palms were on the small of her back. The movement pressed their bodies close. There was no escaping.

It was as if he’d melted into her and bonded them together. The CD ended, and then, without warning, the song changed. Mark Rosas was singing "Higher" and Patrick continued dancing as if the shift in music was inconsequential.
She’d left that dance mix at home.

Why was it playing? The dubstep rhythm in the song gave him an opportunity to really show off. He lifted her into his arms again.

 Patrick turned her toward one of the mirrors as he ground into her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck and felt his breath brushing against her ear. She was transfixed. Her eyes were glued to the mirror. Their bodies resembled an erotic oil painting.
Patrick pulled her in tighter and she melted into him. Their legs moved, but Marie was lost in the dance.

She heard Mark sing, “I just want to take you higher, com'n let me light your fire."
He spun her around and their eyes met. Patrick's were glowing cobalt beacons that held her gaze. His gaze remained locked on her as if mapping her every emotion. As the song came to an end, he slid her to the floor. And she came to rest in a kneeling position at his feet.

About the Author:

R.M. Garry lives with her three male children a.k.a the wolf pack and her husband of 12 years.

Writing allows her to maintain her sanity while juggling her world.

Her goal is to give readers a brief escape from the realities of their world.

When she isn’t writing, R.M. is reading and keeping up with her favorite authors. 

For updates and book information readers can visit

Twitter: @authorrmgarry


Word Press Blog:

January 26 Interview
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February 6 Review
Paranormal Romance and Authors That Rock

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Lisa’s World of Books

Angel Rising: Redemption by LaVerne Thompson

Meet Samuel Glaus
Angel Rising Redemption Book 1
By LaVerne Thompson

My name is Samuel Glaus and some call me a master hunter. Because I hunt the soulless ones. Creatures who have no soul, no emotion other than to kill to feed their soulless existence. Only the death of others can fill the hollowness they have inside. The irony of it all is that my father was once soulless and my mother human, so I’m sort of a hybrid. I have some of their strength and speed. I never get sick and well, I’m also over 600 years old, although, I look like I could be anywhere from 25 to 30.

Unlike the soulless, I do have a soul and I feel, but don’t need to kill humans in order to feel. Instead, my need is to destroy these soulless creatures who do. I have seen too much death at their hands for me to think otherwise. Predators, blood suckers, a blight on the human race. My father, by some quirk of fate was the only exception, but even at one time he too had been a predator. But unlike others, he was able to reclaim his soul.

As the only human, at least half, strong enough to hunt down the soulless I set myself up as the protector of human kind. I and my followers live by the code that any soulless who attacks a human must cease to exist. Until…I met her—Thayla.

The soulless are unbelievably beautiful creatures; it’s how they draw humans to them. And Thalya was no different in that respect from others of her kind. But she drew me too her as no one else ever could. I loved her as no man has ever loved a woman, yet she could not love me back. She felt no emotion. She was my enemy, my love, but I would be her redemption or die at her hands trying.

Angel Rising Redemption
Book 1
LaVerne Thompson

Genre: paranormal/ interracial romance

Publisher: Isisindc Publishing

Date of Publication: January 2, 2015


Number of pages: 248
Word Count: 91,272

Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde

Book Description:

To walk the earth she must feed her hollow soul.

Some of the most beautiful people in the world are not human. They have no soul, feel no emotion and are pure evil. You can tell by the color of their dark, dead eyes. Samuel Glaus knows this. He is the son of a human mother and soulless father. He is after all half human and a hunter of the soulless. He is also in love with one who cannot love him back.

Thalya is a soulless creature, but unlike others of her kind, she does not kill to feed her hollow soul. She hungers only for emotion and above all, she hungers for Samuel’s love. Her enemy. Her redemption. And she’s willing to kill for it.

Adult situations. Violence. Must be 18+

Book Trailer:

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Opening up her senses, she sniffed out the most depressed in the city block around her. While she had no human sense of smell, the scents of emotions to her were as potent, as humans would say a bouquet of freshly cut roses.
Right across the street a man entered the park. The scent of his depression floated right to her on the wind. Hot, potent and yummy, she would feed on it for a few days. There were no others of her kind in the area, so she wouldn’t have to warn anyone off. Although, quite a few soulless resided in New York, the size of the area ensured she didn’t run into others if she didn’t want to, which she usually didn’t.
Going back inside her penthouse condo, she walked across thick sand-colored carpet. Her artist friend, Franklin, would have both loved and hated the great room. Loved it for the cool colors—reds, beiges, and golds. Those had been his favorites, but then she’d stuck a long, extra-wide black leather sofa smack in the center of it. He hated leather and black.
Franklin, long gone…just another from her past.
She put on her long coat, and headed for her private elevator. She didn’t need it but she wanted to blend in. Tonight she would act normal. Normal, at least for a human. As an additional benefit, when she walked through her lobby to get to the street, she would open her senses to her immediate surroundings, sampling a taste of surface emotions as she passed by.
Not all of her kind could suck out emotion without touch but as an olden, one from a time long past and more powerful than most, she could. But other things also set her apart from those like her. She did not need to kill her providers or have them kill others to satisfy her needs. Draining humans of their depression, her emotion of choice, more than satisfied her. Humans carried it in abundance. She merely put her providers to sleep and afterwards, they usually woke up feeling less depressed. Hers represented a more symbiotic relationship. She actually helped people, much like a psychiatrist would. Only, instead of talking them out of their depression, she drained it right out of them.
The elevator door opened and she got on.
The hotel where she lived also housed private residences, but a few guests milled around the lobby for the evening. Just enough people around with some serious issues to make her grin and tremble within her ankle-length leather coat.
“Delicious,” she purred. Red knee high stiletto boots clicked as she crossed the polished marble floor. She ignored the appreciative looks of the men and women as she glided among them, intentionally projecting a do not approach compulsion. Look but don’t touch, unless she was the one doing the touching.
The doorman opened the door for her and smiled. “Good evening. Cold one tonight.” Bundled in layers and with a wool cap on his head, he stood directly beneath a heating vent to stay warm.
He always spoke. She rarely did and tonight, she didn’t. She flashed him some teeth in the semblance of a smile. At least she hoped it looked like a smile and not a grimace. Happiness. It rolled off him in waves. She’d never tried draining that emotion from her providers, although over the centuries she’d met a few of her kind who preferred it. Anything to fill the void in the soulless place. But stealing someone else’s happiness always seemed unnecessary to her. Depression worked just fine.
Out on the sidewalk, the scent hit her again. Like a shining point of light in dark woods, the depressed man she’d sensed beckoned her to follow him. After crossing the street, Thalya entered the park. It didn’t take long to find him.
He sat on a bench at the other end of the park, leaning over with his head in his hands.
She wouldn’t be able to read his thoughts until she actually touched him. No matter, she sensed his depression.
She sat on the bench next to him; he didn’t even bother to look up. Thalya placed her hand on his shoulder and her inner feminine muscles contracted to the point, she almost had an orgasm.
Depression, and so potent.
“Mmm, good,” she murmured.
At her touch, he raised red-rimmed eyes in her direction.
Finally, she had his attention.
He pulled back slightly, some form of self-preservation kicking in. “Who—are you?”
“Shhh. It will be all right. I promise,” she whispered. 
The man sat up and she wrapped her arms around him.
Unable to help himself, he let her.
Hmm, handsome. She always seemed to gravitate toward the young, good-looking ones, although she’d never sleep with any of them. Well, hardly ever. She nuzzled the side of his neck. Under the alcohol he’d indulged in, he exuded a nice clear human scent. Given his emotional state, she’d expected the scent of alcohol to be stronger. Surprisingly she only caught a slight whiff. No more than a beer. Maybe he just started on his drinking for the evening. Didn’t matter. Whatever he’d ingested, she didn’t care about.
She didn’t give him a chance to say more. Instead, she made her way to his mouth, which opened as soon as she pressed her lips against his. Unleashing her powers, she inhaled his depression into the starving emptiness that should have housed her soul, and at the same time, began to read his memories.
Poor thing. Karl, yes…Karl Hammer. He’d recently lost his job and his wife, pregnant with their first child, didn’t know about it. He’d swallowed his pride and asked his blood uncle of sorts for help. Except Karl hadn’t spoken to his uncle in years. Mmm, interesting. She probed for the reason why.
Samuel and the others like him lived a dangerous life. Samuel, a master hunter of the soulless and Karl, merely—bait.

About the Author:

LaVerne Thompson is an award winning, best-selling, multi-published author, an avid reader and a writer of contemporary, fantasy, and sci/fi sensual romances. She also writes romantic suspense and new adult romance under the pen name Ursula Sinclair.

She is currently working on several projects. Both of her daughters are now away at college. However, she and her husband don’t like the term empty nester. She’s added a cat to the household to keep the dog of the house company. Hopefully writing will keep her sane. 

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