Saturday, December 8, 2012

Interview with Jennifer Dean




Hi Wenona! Thanks for having me today!

Thanks Jennifer it's great to have you here. Tell us a little about your latest or upcoming release.

BOUND is a story about the seventeen-year-old Emma Morgan, who moves back to her beloved hometown of Washington, North Carolina, to find her normal life turned upside down when she meets a bright-eyed boy named, Liam Alexander. A boy who happens to be her soulmate…too bad he’s not human.

Is there a theme or message in your work that you would like readers to connect to? 

I would love to know readers can pick out the layered title meaning that reaches out to more than one relationship in the story.

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you? 

I was not the typical person who grew up wanting to write stories for a living. I didn’t even like the idea of reading and was turned off when teachers tried to force me. But when I was seventeen my brother changed my life by finally convincing me to read Harry Potter.

When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures? 

I’m a tv-holic. I love my tv shows! When I’m not working on my next project I am watching one of the many shows that are both on air and collected on dvd.

If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share? 

The next book of the series is Withered Roots. I’m still revising it, but what I will say is that it will pick up with Emma’s life five months later at a wedding.

What is in your to read pile? 

It’s so hard to let myself relax with a book without feeling guilty that I am not writing. But the ones I really want to tackle sometime are Dead Reckoning, Vampire Diaries: The Hunters, and Eragon.


Bound
Jennifer Dean

Genre: Young Adult Paranormal Romance

ISBN: 9781300196211

Number of pages: 254
Word Count: 89,600


Book Description:

17-year-old Emma Morgan believes she finally has the chance at happiness again when she relocates back to her hometown of Washington, North Carolina and reunites with her older brother, Sean.

But after three years apart, their unique bond is tested when Sean protests her meeting of the oddly charming and bright-eyed, Liam Alexander.  A boy who holds a very deep secret from the rest of the residents in Washington.

A secret that will change Emma’s life forever and lead her to discovering the beginning of something she never believed could exist...true love.




About the Author:

Jennifer lives in Dallas, Texas with her family. When not immersed in her writing, she is either engaged in a book or one of her favorite television shows.








Ann Gimpel A Time for Everything and Gabrielle's Cauldron




A Time for Everything
Ann Gimpel

Blurb:

Siobhan Macquire’s fortune has attracted a string of men who are out to drain her for everything they can get. Her last boyfriend was no exception. Furious at being used—again—she goes for a walk in the Highlands.

With the weather worsening, she wanders alone for hours. She’s soaking wet and starting to get scared when someone calls out to her. A striking-looking man emerges from the mist. Except there’s something wrong. His kilt is way too long and he talks with an archaic accent. Siobhan soon finds herself not only lost in the countryside but also in time.




Excerpt:

Sam pulled the draw cords of her hood tighter, squinting against driving rain. She shivered, willing her legs to move faster. Even in the northern latitudes, it got dark eventually during what passed for summer, and the light was definitely fading. One foot sloughed into a hole. Cursing roundly, she yanked it out, noting the mud added what felt like ten pounds to her tired leg. Going on a ramble—as the locals called it—by herself had seemed like a good idea earlier in the afternoon. Now she wasn’t so sure. It had been hours since she’d seen another soul. The air felt heavy—and threatening, somehow.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded herself. “My imagination’s off the clock, working overtime.”

A flash off toward the river was followed almost immediately by a rumbling crash. It started raining harder. The sky lit again, casting the wet greenery and surrounding mountains in a macabre glow. Thunder sounded so loud it made her ears ring. The next lightning flare sparked off a rock not twenty feet away. Sam’s heart sped up. She stared at the mountains ringed about her. Why wasn’t the storm up there? Lightning was supposed to be drawn to high points, not meadows saturated with water.

As if determined to prove her wrong, another flash struck the ground off to her left. She threw her hands over her ears but the thunder reverberated in her brain as if someone had struck an anvil right next to her. Shaking her head to try to make her ears stop hurting, she started walking again. Lightning struck inches from her feet. Sam lurched to a stop, blinking to clear the afterimage. Even as wet as it was, the air felt electrified, thick with sharp edges. She could almost see marauding electrons reaching for her, hungry little mouths wide open.

Fear raced along her nerve endings, making her feel as if she’d downed half a dozen double espressos in a row. The breath whooshed out of her and her head spun crazily.
The storm’s trying to kill me.

Oh, please, she answered herself. Sam hated her tendency to engage in two-way inner dialogue, but she’d done it all her life.

An excruciating twenty minutes and half a dozen lightning strikes later, she thought it might be safe to move. It was raining like a son of a bitch, but after striking what looked like a circle around where she stood, the electrical part of the storm had left as quickly as it had come.

Guess the storm gods didn’t want me, after all.

Why should they? No one else does.

Sam sank into a funk. Shit, could I possibly be any wetter? Weather in the British Isles had been particularly wretched this summer. “Yeah, sort of like the rest of my life,” she muttered as she tried to assess if she’d be better off staying on the track or cutting cross-country toward where she thought a roadway was. Resolutely, she struck out for the road and promptly stepped into calf-deep water. It ran over the top of her boot and soaked her thick, woolen sock before she could jerk her foot back to solid ground.

So much for that idea. Obviously, there’d been so much rain the ground on both sides of the track had turned into a bog. She’d never seen one before this trip to Scotland. They were hideous. Miles of saturated ground with water deep enough to reach her knees in some places. Sam glanced at her watch and groaned. She’d been walking for close to five hours. No wonder it was getting dark. The village she was aiming for shouldn’t actually be all that far away. In fact, she should have been there long since. About to tuck her watch back under her sleeve, she took one last look at it and realized the second hand had stopped. She tapped the crystal with her finger but nothing happened.

Crap! Wonder when it quit? Must be the damp.

Yes, another less pleasant voice piped up, it also means I have no idea how long I’ve been walking. Peering through mist-shrouded countryside, she looked for some signs of Beauly Village but all she saw were sheep.

Sam told herself to keep walking. It wasn’t as if there was anywhere she could even sit to consider her options. Everything dripped water. Her jacket and pants, which had always provided adequate protection from the elements back in the States, were woefully inadequate here. She was afraid to pull out her cell phone. Electronics and water definitely weren’t compatible. Yeah, just look what happened to my watch. Dark thoughts crowded her mind. Why had she thought it would be romantic to spend a year in Scotland?

You know why, an inner voice—the nasty one—sneered. It was your infatuation with Clint. Sam gave her resident maven a point for accuracy. Clint, with his spiffy Scottish intonations, dreamy blue eyes, and red-blonde curls, had sweet-talked her into bankrolling a trip to his home. Between his ever-so-broad shoulders, washboard abs, and nice, tight ass, he’d barely let her out of bed for a month. By the time she’d figured out the reason he had so much time on his hands was because he didn’t have a job, it was too late. She was head over heels in love. And hoping desperately that this time it would lead her to the altar. After all, it wasn’t as if he had to work. All he needed to do was treat her like a queen. She had plenty of money for both of them.

Eager to grant her prince whatever he wanted, she’d readily agreed when he’d talked longingly of going back to Scotland for a while. Except he’d had a personality transplant practically the second they’d landed in Glasgow. In the month-and-a-half since they’d arrived, she’d scarcely seen him. He was always off with his mates, as he called them, drinking or climbing. There were weeks when he hadn’t returned to their rental flat in Inverness at all. Worse, she suspected some of those mates were gay. When she’d asked him if he swung both ways his eyes had turned to blue ice chips. He’d twisted away and slammed out of the house. That was the last time she’d seen him.

Water ran off the bill of her hood. Some of it dripped into one eye. “Oh to hell with it,” she snarled. “I’m catching the first plane out of here—without him.” She sighed, feeling sad and angry by turns. Clint was far from the first man who’d taken advantage of her. As soon as they found out she was an heiress to a whiskey fortune, they promised her the moon and then fleeced her for everything they could get. She’d gotten pretty cagy in the years between sixteen and her current twenty-five. She’d even rented a modest apartment in Seattle and pretended she lived there when she met someone new.

Eventually, though, when she thought a guy might be different, she took him to the Capitol Hill mansion she’d more-or-less inherited after her parents relocated to one of their many other homes. No matter how promising a relationship looked, the truth of that rambling mansion was always the beginning of the end.




Gabrielle's Cauldron
By Ann Gimpel
Publisher: Liquid Silver Books
ISBN: 978-1-93176-119-2
Genre: Paranormal Romance

Coming December 31, 2012
Gabrielle McCallaghan just lost her job. Seeing the writing on the wall, she quit to spare her uncle the embarrassment of having to fire her. With her bond fairy on her shoulder, she strides through a crowded neighborhood contemplating her options.
Out of nowhere, a gorgeous, full blood magic wielder appears and makes a beeline right for her. Gabby knows her hybrid witch magic is no match for his, so she tries to evade him. The fairy does her best to help, but the contest is laughable. Even in his human form, the wolf-man is still stronger than she ever dreamed of being.
It doesn’t take long before Gabby is drawn into a deadly game of intrigue that started over a thousand years before. The stakes are high and the timing abysmal, but she finds herself falling in love in spite of herself. Can she and her full blood lover make a life for themselves? Or will the long-running battle between full bloods and hybrids pound the fragile bond between them to dust? 


Excerpt:

Gabrielle shook her head. She was shocked at how eager she was to be free of Brad and this office. Now that the possibility of independence sat there, beckoning to her, she couldn’t resist. “Thanks, Uncle Brad. You’ve been more than kind to me.”

He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle, “keep in touch. If you stop by tomorrow, I’ll have your check for this last week.”

Gabrielle knew how little she’d done. “That’s okay. I’ll just grab my things and be out of your hair. I—” but she didn’t know what else to say. Suddenly uncomfortable, she turned away from her uncle and went to clear her few possessions out of her desk. After inadvertently slamming her long, dark hair in a desk drawer, she pulled it into an untidy pony tail. Ten minutes later, she let herself out the swinging glass door adorned with BRAD MCCALLAGHAN, CPA, in faded, dark blue letters.

“That wasn’t very smart,” she muttered to the pixie sitting on her shoulder. “What am I going to do now?”

Doesn’t matter, I’m free.

“No, we’re free,” Amalia corrected. The pixie was clearly in mind-reading mode. "It hasn’t been any fun at all being your bond fairy ever since you took that job. All you’ve done is grump around, hating life.”

Gabrielle stared balefully at the pixie. “You need to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Why?” Amalia crossed one leg over the other. The foot that dangled beat a tattoo against Gabby’s breast.

“Never mind.” Knowing it would be wasted breath to try to get the pixie to do anything but what she wanted, Gabrielle sucked in crisp autumn air and walked toward the bus stop. It felt good to be outside. Not living a lie anymore was a big relief. She’d struggled with guilt for months about her antipathy for Microsoft Excel, Turbo Tax and Tax Cut. At least that part was over.

Strangers swirled around her. Seattle’s Capitol Hill was always full of people. Gabrielle looked longingly at a Starbuck’s sign, but three dollar coffees weren’t part of her new austerity plan. Actually, neither was the bus. What she needed to do was walk home. She had the time. And lower Queen Anne Hill wasn’t all that far away. She could be home in an hour.

What a joke. I have nothing but time now. Maybe if I walked more, I could get rid of some of this blubber. She tugged at the too-tight waistband of her too-short dark green skirt. Sitting eight hours a day hadn’t improved her figure at all. Gabrielle knew her height masked extra pounds; she also knew she’d gained a good ten since she started working for her uncle.

“Don’t stare,” Amalia hissed, sea-blue eyes wide with apprehension, “but that looks like trouble.” The pixie always reverted to mind speech when she felt threatened. Good thing too. Her constant dialogue had gotten Gabrielle into trouble more than once when someone had assumed she was the source of some smartass comment or other. Not all humans could hear pixies. It depended how much magic they had. The problem was when a person had no idea they had magic, but had been blessed—or cursed—with just enough to hear fairy chatter. Those folk were the ones who’d ended up in asylums a hundred years ago. Now doctors just crammed them full of mind-numbing drugs.

Gabrielle’s head snapped up. A hunk of a man who radiated power—wore it like an aura that screamed how much clout he had—strode down the opposite side of the street as if he owned the world. Coppery hair fell nearly to his waist. Well past six feet, he was dressed like a pirate in a cream-colored shirt with full, old-fashioned sleeves, a dark brown leather vest, and tight-fitting, black leather pants that left very little to the imagination. Knee-high boots of buff-colored suede fit over the pants. Apparently feeling her gaze on him, he slowed, head turning from side to side. Gabrielle could have sworn he was scenting the air like a dog.

“What is he?” Gabby sent. “I know he’s a full blood, but what kind?” Because pixies were entirely magical just like the full bloods, they were often quicker on the uptake. Gabby was a hybrid and her human blood often got in the way.

“Warg. He can see me, Gabby. Do something.” Amalia’s nails dug into her shoulder.

The pixie’s words had barely registered when a wolfish amber gaze settled on Gabrielle, boring into her. Heart racing, she ducked into the first shop she saw.

“Are you all right, miss?” A shopkeeper hurried over. Dyed red hair spiked in curls that fell past her shoulders. Sharp, green eyes took in Gabby and her off-the-rack J.C. Penney’s clothes.

Gabrielle looked around and saw she’d entered a lingerie store, and a pricey one at that judging from the tags hanging off flimsy bits of silk. She tried to quiet her breathing. “Yes. Just thought I’d, uh, look around a bit. I have a friend who’s, ah, getting married.” She offered up what she hoped was a convincing smile, reinforced by the tiniest leave me alone spell. The last thing she needed was for the salesclerk to boot her out of the store.

“There you are, darling.” A cultured baritone rang from the doorway. The voice had a definite German accent. “Nice of you to shop for something to entertain me.” The warg moved to her side and slid a hand under her elbow. A blast of sexual energy set Gabby’s nerves on fire. Her nipples pebbled instantly and her skin tingled with promise. Mostly so she wouldn’t throw herself into his arms, she took a step away and tried to settle her heart back into a normal rhythm. But the warg’s heat—and a delicious musky scent—followed her.

The shop girl’s eyes grew huge. She was practically salivating. Gabby could tell she was struggling to keep her gaze above the warg’s waist. “Welcome to my shop, sir,” she cooed. “We have things for men too.”

He raised a well-formed eyebrow. “Yes, dear. Your whole shop is actually for men.”
About the Author
Ann Gimpel is a clinical psychologist, with a Jungian bent.  Avocations include mountaineering, skiing, wilderness photography and, of course, writing.  A lifelong aficionado of the unusual, she began writing speculative fiction a few years ago. Since then her short fiction has appeared in a number of webzines and anthologies. Two novels, Psyche’s Prophecy, and its sequel, Psyche’s Search, have been published by Gypsy Shadow Publishing, a small press. A husband, grown children, grandchildren and three wolf hybrids round out her family.
           
@AnnGimpel 

Interview with Charlotte Caste

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Guest Blog and Giveaway with Robyn Bachar


I have cats. Two cats, to be precise, and I am allergic to both of them. I love Tweeting pictures of my cats, because clearly they are the most handsome kitties in the world. I’ve always had pets—dogs, fish, a box turtle, a cockatiel—because I love animals. I think a person’s pets say a lot about them. In my first two Bad Witch books the heroine has two overweight ginger cats named Merri and Pippin, which lets the reader know that she’s a bit of a geek and that she spoils her furry babies by overfeeding them. In Fire in the Blood, the heroine, Patience, has a demon.

But Harvey is a good demon, in fact he used to be an elf, and he’s useful. He keeps Patience in line like her own personal assistant. He always reminds her to eat when she’s too busy banishing evil demons to grab a meal. He helps her fight her battles, even though he’s about as tough as a magical cocker spaniel. In return, Patience spoils Harvey by buying him all the video games he wants. He’s particularly fond of Angry Birds and the Legend of Zelda games.

Patience and Harvey make a great team, and they’re a lot of fun to write. I like to think that my cats would have an amusing running commentary like Harvey does. If nothing else, they make their opinions known around meal times, or when I should be petting them instead of writing (which is apparently all the time). In the epic battle of lap cat versus laptop, lap cat is winning, and thus I’ve reached the end of this post. Thanks for having me today!




Fire in the Blood
Bad Witch Book 3
Robyn Bachar

Genre: Paranormal romance
Publisher: Samhain Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-61921-173-5 
ASIN: B008PGMPYK

Number of pages: 139
Word Count: 33,000

Cover Artist: Kanaxa

Samhain     Amazon       Barnes and Noble

Book Description:

It’s good to be bad…
Patience Roberts is the last summoner standing between magiciankind and certain demon invasion. After banishing two or three demons a day for too long, gods know she’d like nothing better than a little down time with her number one distraction—Faust.

But with vampires, hunters and assassins lined up to take her out, who has the time? Still, she has to admit her resistance to the amorous faerie is wearing thin. Not that she’ll ever let on—after all, faeries are notorious for their short romantic attention spans.

Faust, a Shadowspawn faerie, watched as his outcast clan dwindled to nothing. Determined to hold on to the woman he loves, he’ll do whatever it takes to protect Patience. And one day build a life with her.

When an old demon enemy punches through the barrier between the worlds, Patience must draw on every ounce of her reputation as a cast-iron bitch to temporarily banish him. To get rid of him for good, she’ll have to sacrifice one too many pieces of her soul to leave room for love…

Warning: Contains a hero and heroine so hot they’re literally on fire, naughty faerie sex, post-coital cuteness, angsty magician drama, and yet more gratuitous violence against vampires, demons, and innocent furniture.

About the Author:

Robyn Bachar was born and raised in Berwyn, Illinois, and loves all things related to Chicago, from the Cubs to the pizza. It seemed only natural to combine it with her love of fantasy, and tell stories of witches and vampires in the Chicagoland area. As a gamer, Robyn has spent many hours rolling dice, playing rock-paper-scissors, and slaying creatures in MMPORGs.







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Friday, December 7, 2012

Guest blog with Jacoba Dorothy

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Spotlight Blitz Christmas Eve



Guest blog
Carly Fall - Where Fantasy Meets Romance

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Andi’s Book Reviews

Interview
Books, Books, The Magical Fruit

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Saph's Book Reviews

Review


Christmas Eve
By Angela Burns

ASIN B00AHK0H92

'Christmas Eve' is a simple Winter Ghost Story. 


A tale of one womans redemption from immeasurable suffering, taking you on a journey to the Heights of Heavn and the Gates of Hell, exploring the intricacies of human nature and the the deigns of fate through the eyes of a family left in torment following a horrendous accident.


'Christmas Eve' is a heart-warming read, set over the night when we all feel a little magic in the air.




Book Trailer http://youtu.be/EL59TGGUdAY



“Jo’s on the phone.”

This simple sentence pushes her headlong into the abyss of insanity, causing her to throw up as she spirals into incomprehension, not caring which of these winter ghosts she is being persecuted by.

This isn’t real. This can’t be happening!

Repeating this mantra provides no comfort as she rocks back and forth on the sofa, sobbing wildly, floods of tears burning her, her hands covering her face. She lets out an almighty scream. Her dishevelled state and pitiful wails do not attract the revellers
as she stands and looks around the room.

The familiar faces of friends and family from the past, all gathered for their annual celebration of the holiday they once held dear, remain oblivious to her presence.

Brutally trembling, holding onto the furniture for support, she makes her way slowly through the room. Disjointed snatches of conversations resonate in her skull, feeding an intense headache of confusion.

Jo is on the phone…I need to talk to Jo. Am I dead? Are these ghosts? Am I the Ghost? Why can’t they see me?

She was right; they couldn’t see her or hear her–apart from one man.

He stands resolutely in the bay window of the room, by the grandiose tree, in mid-conversation with Janet’s boss and her partner, when he stops and glances at her, smiling warmly.

Nick! She shouts in her mind, unable to form the word.

She tries again to call out, but each time the syllables stifle in her throat, sentencing her to a wretched silence from which she cannot flee.

Winking at her, he returns to his previous conversation.

You were here on that night, damn you! Why can’t I remember
you?
Continuing through into the entrance hall, she slowly drags her feet on the flagstones, crippled by her sickness.

I must get to the phone.

There are more people there, many more, crammed, solemn, like cattle to the slaughter. This time, however, they do not belong to her memories. None of them speak as she ambles her way through. Hunched like zombies, they study her every step as she moves pathetically amongst them.

They can see me.

Their costumes reflect the history of the life once told in this home – four hundred years of history. Mortified, she remains possessed by the miraculous chance of hearing her daughter's beautiful voice again, and has no time to question what is
happening.

As she approaches the kitchen where the phone is kept, a cold wind brushes past her arm. Horror-struck to see her other self sweep through her as she quickly walks towards the kitchen, towards the phone, another scream begins to curdle as she realises that she shares one common denominator with the guests in the
hall. They are all ghosts. The ghosts of Stonebridge Farm. It is only her determination to hear her daughter once again that chokes her cries, refocusing her.

I must … get … to that … phone.

Each weighty step exhausts her as she trudges through the walls of dead energy that surround her.

Am I dead? What the heck happened? Where’s Nick? I’m coming Jo … sweetheart … please don’t go … I’m coming.

The other Janet had already picked up the phone as she stumbles into the kitchen.

DAMN YOU, YOU SELFISH BITCH! THAT WAS MY CALL! She screams at herself in deathly silence.

Helpless and panicking, she calls wildly at the others to help her.
Please help me! HELP ME! She doesn’t know what she is doing … what she is saying! FOR GOD’S SAKE, PLEASE WON’T SOMEBODY HELP ME! I NEED TO SPEAK TO MY DAUGHTER!



About the Author:

Angela Burns is a retired Police Officer, living with her partner and children in Norwich, Norfolk. Having been given the gift of time, she now writes full time, living her ambition to share the stories that have floated around her head for so long.


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